


The Streets of Drylliad

by catcryptid



Category: The Ascendance Trilogy - Jennifer A. Nielsen
Genre: Blood and Violence, Complete, F/M, Ficlet Series, Fluff, Gen, Mystery, ish, it gets pretty dark lol, keyword mostly, mostly fun, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 106,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25287193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catcryptid/pseuds/catcryptid
Summary: A series of interconnected short stories following the lives of King Jaron, Tobias Branch, Princess Amarinda, Queen Imogen and Captain Roden Harlowe. Set three years after the events of The Shadow Throne, this series will features a wide array of headcanons, original characters, and fan developed ideas.
Relationships: Amarinda of Bultain/Tobias, Jaron Artolius Eckbert III/Imogen
Kudos: 9





	1. Can't Believe You Made Me Do This!

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to @tinuviel_tinuviel (piratekingimogen on tumblr)   
> this whole series is her fault  
> this was supposed to be a one shot for an exchange and it turned into the fandom's first novel-length fic

“Can’t believe you’ve made me do this,” Jaron groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was dangling from a tree by his right ankle. “What am I going to tell Imogen?”

“The truth, for starters,” countered Roden. A flicker of a smirk crossed his face when Tobias agreed. “And I’ll point out that we didn’t pressure you into doing anything.”

“I specifically told you that you’d get into trouble, and you didn’t listen. Again,” Tobias dragged his sleeve across his forehead, obviously thinking of ways to solve the problem before them. 

The morning started out quite well.

Almost too well.

Roden was called away to investigate a broken bridge, as it had been dismantled several times over the course of a month and forced travelers to find different routes into Drylliad. 

It seemed like something the regents needed to take care of…

And the matter was left alone for several weeks. 

Until news came that an entourage of a lesser Bymarian king was to come to Drylliad. He was coming simply to rub elbows with Carthya, and discuss political matters with the former Princess Amarinda, who’d become an ambassador upon her marriage to Tobias. 

Jaron had been told that Bymarian entourages traveled in three parts. 

At the head was usually a trusted guardian, followed by the person holding a seat of power, and then followed by a decoy of some sorts. 

The bridge was dismantled quickly after word of the lesser king’s arrival spread throughout the area. A dozen soldiers were sent to mandate the bridge building and ensure that it stayed intact.

But no word had come from them in two weeks.

Roden himself decided to figure out who was causing the destruction.

And, unable to pass up a chance to do something, Jaron announced that he’d be going too.

Which meant that Tobias had to accompany them in the event that somebody was injured.

An all too likely event considering that both Roden and Jaron were going, and the whole ordeal reeked of bandits.

The ride out to the bridge was eerily calm. 

Tobias was sure that not even the birds were singing. The sun was shining with the perfect amount of heat and light, and the bugs were hiding in their crevices. No villagers walked along the road.

Not a single soul. 

It didn’t take long to figure out why. 

With the bridge in sight, Roden insisted on dismounting and keeping their horses out of the way. The horses were secured to a hanging branch a little ways off the road.

An icy fear crept up the back of Tobias’ neck once they returned to the road.

No sign of any bandits.

Anywhere.

They were being watched, Tobias was sure of it, otherwise he wouldn’t have felt so exposed. Energy seeped through the pretty afternoon. 

Powerful and unnerving.

Roden didn’t speak, Tobias could only assume that he was preparing himself for a bloody confrontation. However, Jaron continued to speak to Tobias concerning the repeatedly broken bridge.

“It’s annoying,” Jaron was saying. “The workers seem more than happy about it, considering that they’re getting paid for the repairs. I want to know why. What’s to gain from this?”

“I really think it has to do with bandits,” Tobias replied. He kept his eyes glued to the dismantled bridge now in sight.

“How did it get dismantled in the first place? Those stones are difficult to move.”

“Perhaps they’re using magic.”

“Stop touching my boot, Roden, you’re going to trip-” Jaron began, but his sentence ended with a yelp of surprise. 

Tobias couldn’t stop himself from crying out as he stumbled away from Jaron, who was trying to free himself from the rope tightly encircling his right ankle. 

“Bandits,” Roden grunted, sword drawn. 

A nervous chuckle escaped Tobias’ lips, “Bandits? Please tell me you’re joking, please, please be joking. They’ll kill us. Kill us like they killed those-”

“There’d still be blood on the stones if the soldiers I sent were killed. We need to get Jaron down.”

“Oh no,” Jaron snapped. “Keep me up here. I do so love the view. Gives me a new perspective on life.”

“Tobias, take my sword and cut the rope,” instructed Roden, gingerly holding his sword by the blade, the hilt pointed out to Tobias. “I’ll catch Jaron, keep him from hitting his fat head.”

“I do not have a fat head!”

“Sure you do, you just don’t like to admit it. Tobias, take the sword?”

“Can’t believe you’ve made me do this,” Jaron groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was dangling from a tree by his right ankle. “What am I going to tell Imogen?”

“The truth, for starters,” countered Roden. A flicker of a smirk crossed his face when Tobias agreed. “And I’ll point out that we didn’t pressure you into doing anything.”

“I specifically told you that you’d get into trouble, and you didn’t listen. Again,” Tobias dragged his sleeve across his forehead, obviously thinking of ways to solve the problem before them. 

“The sword, Tobias.”

“Are you sure it’s supposed to be held like that?” He shuddered, thinking about the sharp blade against human flesh. Tobias knew all too well that Roden took great care of his weaponry. “I don’t want to cut-”

“Take the sword and cut the rope!” Both Jaron and Roden exclaimed.

“Right!” Tobias exclaimed, taking the sword hilt with both hands. 

He felt like he was cradling a broken bird, and he looked like it too. Tobias peered over his shoulder. Roden had a tight grip around Jaron’s waist. They both nodded.

With as much force as he could muster, Tobias heaved the sword over his head and down onto the rope attached to Jaron’s ankle. He grinned, “I did it, see? I can use a sword!”

“Congratulations, I’ll be sure to give you lands and another title once we get back to the castle,” Jaron grunted. He took several steps forwards, “Saints, that didn’t feel good.”

“Then stop walking on it, clotpole,” Roden countered, he beckoned for his sword back. “Definitely bandits in the area, I’ll take a look at the bridge. Jaron, make sure Tobias doesn’t end up dangling from a tree just like you.”

“Yes sir, captain sir.”

Tobias turned in a circle around himself, imagining hundreds of eyes on him.

Bandits’ eyes. 

Bandits who were waiting to kill him, Jaron, and Roden.

“We’re going to be attacked, aren’t we?” He muttered, swinging his hands back and forth. “The bandits are going to steal everything we have.”

“We don’t even know what they’re up to,” Jaron noted. He was balancing on his left foot, and rotating his right in a circle. “We’ve only ever heard news of the bridge being dismantled, not news of murders or robberies. I suspect it’s a demonstration or something. Probably related to the gangs in the area.”

“I’m a little rusty when it comes to criminal gangs.”

“But Roden isn’t, he knows what he’s doing.”

Despite Jaron’s confidence, Tobias still caught himself looking over both of his shoulders. 

He swore he saw one of the bushes move.

“No sign of any struggle, anywhere,” called Roden from the bridge precipice. He frowned, “I think-”

“What’s that sound?” Tobias crossed his arms, trying to identify what sounded like distant cannons.

“Drums,” Jaron said. “Seems the first part of the Bymarian entourage has come.”

“They haven’t taken another way. They’re going to be disappointed by the bridge,” Roden noted. He took a long look at the rushing of the Roving River. “I’ll cross and let them know.”

The drumming was soon accompanied by the sound of a score of marching soldiers. 

“We’ll come with you,” Jaron grabbed Tobias by the upper arm, dragging him towards the water. “My boots are going to be soaked.”

“Look on the bright side,” Tobias grinned. “Roden’s been overdue for a bath. It won’t be so smelly on our venture home.”

“I heard that!”

Jaron smiled at that, which only made Tobias feel better. 

Perhaps he’d been worrying about nothing all along. Perhaps they’d-

The marching suddenly stopped the second they all emerged from the water. Flashes of color moved in between the trees. 

Men were yelling as loud as they could. 

“Definitely bandits,” Roden growled through gritted teeth. He took off running, as did Jaron, leaving Tobias dripping with water.

“That’s not-!” He tried, but he knew that they wouldn’t listen to him.

He had two choices.

Run home and try to get reinforcements.

Or follow them.

Tobias cursed himself as he rushed after Roden and Jaron’s fleeing figures. 

There wasn’t a warrior’s bone in his body. He was unarmed. Tobias was well aware of how bad of an idea it was to be running after two of the bravest people he knew. The bandits would likely go after him first, but he couldn’t watch them rush off without knowing he’d be there if they needed it.

Swords clanged together.

Tobias’ head spun as he searched for Roden and Jaron in a sea of Bymarian soldiers and leather clad bandits. 

No sign of them.

He raised his hands to his mouth, prepared to call out to them.

And he nearly got away with it too.

The dagger at his throat stopped him from saying anything.

“We have no quarrel with your king,” growled the bandit from behind Tobias. “Find him, and tell him to go.”

“You-! Ah! That hurts!” Tobias shied his elbow as far as he could, feeling a rush of excitement when his assailant grunted in surprise. The blow landed between ribs, rather than in a fleshy stomach.

His captor was probably short.

The pressure at his throat lessened.

“You’re the one,” Tobias gasped, “-you’re the one dismantling the bridge.”

“You’re the one allowing traitors into your land. I have no quarrel, I seek to settle an old debt. Now move,” ordered the bandit, shoving Tobias forward.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t take orders from anyone. I give them.”

“He’s got the regent!” Shouted a Bymarian. “He’s got the ambassador’s husband!”

“Drop your swords,” snarled the bandit, his voice rising an octave. “Lower them, or I’ll slit his throat!”

“I’d really rather you didn’t!” Tobias whispered, slowly walking forwards. He sincerely hoped that Jaron and Roden wouldn’t be near.

There was no telling what the short bandit would do.

“Keep. Moving,” ordered the bandit, pressure returning to Tobias’s neck.

Ah.

There they were.

Jaron and Roden in the midst of it all, their swords still locked with two masked bandits.

“Give me Lord Feall!” Snarled the short bandit. 

“Or what?” Jaron scowled, his sword still extended, much like most of the Bymarian soldiers.

The bandit didn’t say anything, only pressed his knife to Tobias’ throat until he yelped, “I killed your men, I’m not afraid to kill him too.”

“I’m going to call your bluff,” the smirk on Jaron’s face only infuriated Tobias. “My captain here has been very insistent about the fact that there’s no sign of blood here. He could be wrong, it’s likely that your band here has the cleaning skills of the realm’s most famous maids.”

“I’m not here to play games!” The bandit exclaimed, “Bring me Feall!”

“Really Jaron I think- hey, hey, hey, let’s be gentle with the dagger? Please?” Tobias croaked, suddenly realizing that he was very much afraid to die.

“No need for more bloodshed, I’m right here,” said a knight. He took off his helmet, and tossed it at Tobias’ feet. “What are they calling you here? Shrike? The Black Knight?”

It was hard to look at the knight, Feall, who’s eyes were probably filled with pity. 

Stupid Tobias. Running off to a skirmish without a sword. 

There was something strikingly familiar about Feall. His brown, almond shaped eyes were all too recognizable. He had to be another lesser Bymarian king, or at least another nobleman.

He shared many traits with Amarinda.

“Fight me like a man, Feall,” growled the bandit. “There’s a score to be settled.”

“Many people want to settle scores with me, you’ll have to tell me your name first,” Feall dismounted, shared a look with Jaron and Roden, and held out his hands in surrender. 

“Rot in Hell.”

“You know that I’m not the one who’ll be rotting with the Devils.”

Silence settled over the forest. Feall’s long brown hair drifted lazily in the wind. No emotions lingered on his face. 

“Can you let me go now-?” Tobias began, wanting nothing more than to be far away from the short bandit. 

He did his best not to stumble once the bandit shoved him towards Jaron and Roden.

Tobias rubbed his eyes as he took in the details of the scene. The bandits were outnumbered, each one fighting off at least six soldiers. 

Even Tobias recognized that as a stupid move on their part, and he was no military strategist.

The short bandit that threatened him had to have been the same height as Imogen, if not a little smaller. He wore a threadbare cloak dotted with massive holes. The sword at his side was much skinnier than Tobias expected. 

Most bandits used broadswords.

“Ever seen this one before?” Jaron asked quietly, now holding his sword with both hands to keep it from falling.

“No,” replied Roden. His face twisted into a fierce scowl, “Actually… Perhaps. I’m not quite sure.”

“How can you not be sure!?” Tobias did his best to keep his voice down. “That bandit has to be the size of a teenager! How many of those roam the streets stealing food and lives?”

“Many, but this one hides. I’d recognize them. Most of the bandits I’ve dealt with don’t like covering their faces. Makes it hard to breathe.”

“Besides,” Jaron’s eyes were locked on the short bandit, “The bridge’s destruction began weeks ago. Our gentleman friend has likely been too busy ruining my roads to be able to build a reputation in Drylliad.”

“Feall can’t face the bandit alone,” Roden hissed, his eyes glued to his opponent…

Who was slowly inching away.

“What makes you say that?” Tobias murmured. Feall and the bandit were still locked in a standstill.

Jaron cleared his throat, “This type of bandit has one goal. Revenge. Otherwise, they would’ve been robbing the travelers who couldn’t use the bridge. Every one of these men will slay Feall, even if it means they all die.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Roden, his tone low and as hard as stone.

“No?” Tobias choked out. 

A wicked grin spread on Jaron’s face, “Absolutely.”

It all happened at once. 

Roden let out a shout that rivaled a lion’s roar, and swung his sword at his opponent, cutting him down instantly. Jaron rushed forwards, attacking the short bandit as Feall did the same.

A shout was lost among the clanging swords, but Tobias was certain it was either Jaron or Roden yelling at him to get out of the way.

So he did. 

Tobias ducked through a bandit racing to cut Feall in half. He slipped past battleaxes and swinging maces, doing his best to get away from the fighting and to the entourage’s untouched wagons. 

He would’ve been safely tucked beneath the first wagon he saw if it weren’t for the bandits who were silently boarding the vehicle. 

“What are you-?” Tobias blurted out, pointing his finger at the first bandit he saw.

Who, in turn, mimicked the same gesture.

They stood there, pointing at each other as Tobias worked through what he saw. Lines and lines of wagons, and yet, the bandits were only boarding the first and last wagons. 

Wait a moment. 

Tobias held his hands up, “I don’t want any more trouble.”

The bandit said nothing, but he did raise his eyebrows, almost challenging Tobias to rat them out. He was much more frightening than the masked bandit fighting Feall and Jaron. Scars crossed his face. A silver ring dangled from his left ear, similar to the ring Roden wore in his right. 

“There’s a pattern, mind if I see-,” Tobias began, taking a small step forward. The bandit in front of him held out his sword, the point nearly touching his throat. Tobias stopped.

“Can’t blame us for not trusting you,” the Bandit noted. His accent was thick. He motioned to the others behind him, attempting to get them to go faster. 

Bymarian bandits in Carthya.

“I don’t have a sword and I doubt I’d make enough noise to draw attention. If anything, you’re drawing more attention by pointing your sword at me.”

“Why shouldn’t I skewer you right now?”

“Because I think I know who you are,” Tobias stuttered, gesturing to the short bandit fighting Feall. “I can call King Jaron and Captain Harlowe away. Let you escape.”

Offering an opportunity to escape? To criminals? 

When had Tobias stooped so low?

But if he was right… The bandits before him weren’t criminals at all, or at least they weren’t until today. 

“Take a guess,” the bandit snapped, his sword still extended.

Tobias forced himself to remain calm, “Let me see what’s in the wagon then.”

“I’ll kill you if you’re wrong.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He inched towards the back of the wagon anyways.

“Aha!” Tobias exclaimed, pointing at the goods inside. He had to restrain himself from patting his own shoulder, “I knew it. I was right. You’re the Faola. That’s why neither the king nor his captain know who you are.”

“But you do?” The bandit countered, shooing Tobias away with his blade.

“Yes, yes I do, you’ve been the talk of many patients of mine. Though I wonder, how do you know what to deliver?”

“We have our ways.”

“So this means I’ve guessed correctly?” Tobias asked, suddenly giddy despite the battle.

“You will find your missing soldiers near Eberstein. Unharmed and unarmed, but alive. Tell your king we have no quarrel with him,” the bandit ordered, gesturing to Jaron…

Who was no longer fighting the short bandit.

Roden was mercilessly attacking the short bandit, who was struggling to hold his ground. 

The short bandit. 

“Why are you still here?” Tobias whipped around, waving his arms at the bandit behind him, which was probably not the best idea. “Get out of here!”

“A noble, telling us to flee,” chuckled the hulking bandit. “I’m here to ensure that you call of your-”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. Tobias was dashing out to the fight without a second thought.

“You have to-! No, stop!” He called, trying his best to shove Bymarian soldiers away from the now fleeing bandits. “Don’t hurt them!”

“I told you-!” Roden shouted as his sword collided with the short bandit’s over and over again. “I told you to get to safety!”

“You don’t understand! These people aren’t who you think they are!”

“They’ve threatened a member of Bymar’s family!” Jaron called out, fighting back to back with Feall. “It’s considered treason!”

All Tobias knew was that he had to stop this somehow. 

But he was thin and unable to truly use a sword.

He looked back to the wagons, a momentary wave of relief flooding his crazed mind. The hulking bandit and the others were forcing the wagons into the woods. Many hung off the wagons’ sides, batting away the soldiers inevitably chasing after them. 

Eventually, they were going fast enough to escape the running soldiers. 

Good. 

The battle was thinning out with each passing second. Fallen Bymarians and bandits were dragging themselves away. 

Tobias found himself unable to move as he watched Roden manage to force the short bandit back, causing him to tumble to the ground. 

How could he make them understand?

“It should be me,” Feall said, rushing towards Tobias, Roden, and the short bandit still trying to escape.

Feall’s sword was streaming with red.

“We take people alive when we can,” growled Roden. 

“I know this man,” argued Feall. “There is an order for his death in Bymar.”

“We’re not in Bymar.”

The short bandit tried his best to crawl away, but Roden simply stepped forward, the point of his blade hanging perilously above the bandit’s throat.

“This is not a matter for discussion,” Feall stepped closer to the short bandit’s head, holding his sword in both hands. “I must be sure that justice is given to those who deserve it.”

It was as if Feall was moving through water.

He raised his sword high above his head, preparing to behead the short bandit.

The short bandit.

The one responsible for this raid on the entourage.

Members of the Faola, a gang entirely skilled at lying under the king’s eye, that their name had yet to reach Drylliad castle. 

Gathering his courage, Tobias knew how he could save the situation. He pointed away from the defeated bandit, his own voice ringing in his ears, “Bowman!”

Results came in an instant.

Feall turned his back to the ‘bowman’ hiding in the trees by the riverbank. Roden crouched to the ground, ducking his head behind his sword. 

Tobias remained standing.

Smugness crept through his feet, creeping up to his face.

He couldn’t stop from grinning.

The short bandit launched himself to his feet, only offering Tobias a glance of gratitude as he dashed after the wagons. 

“There’s no bowman,” Jaron said after watching Feall and Roden cover their heads for several moments. 

If looks could kill, Tobias would’ve been dead in an instant.

“What. Was. That.” Roden snarled, gesturing first to the imagined bowman and the fleeing bandit. “You cost us a criminal! They’ll be back now! All of them! Because of-!”

For the first time in a long time, Tobias interrupted, “I knew what I was doing.”

“You have some explaining to do,” Jaron’s voice was dangerously low.

Almost brimming with anger.

“Gladly,” Tobias shot back. “Would you like me to give a presentation in the regents’ room, or would an explanation right now suffice?”

“I think now would be best,” Feall inhaled, and sheathed his sword. “Now would be good before I inform Queen Danika that her niece’s husband is a sympathizer to treasonous killers.”

“There will be no such thing, and here’s-.”

“It better be a damn good explanation,”

“You’ll get it once everyone stops interrupting him,” Jaron snapped. He crossed his arms, “Go on, Tobias.”

He took a breath, clasped his hands behind his back, and began, “You’ll find that there’s nothing missing from the entourage save for food, blankets, and medicine. The goods inside will start popping up in various cities. As far as I’m aware, this is the first time the Faola have ever stolen, which is why neither of you were able to recognize if this situation was caused by bandits in the first place.

"They have yet to come to Drylliad, but I have patients from other cities inform me all the time about how they were afraid of starving to death, only to find barrels and barrels of provisions for them. Medicines, shoes, blankets. Evictions stopped because debts are paid without any eyewitnesses. The Faola aren’t criminals. I promise.”

“They are now,” Feall couldn’t conceal the disappointment in his voice. “These acts prove that the Faola can’t be trusted. They have an agenda.”

“To what? Eliminate you?” Jaron hid his scoffing tone with a cough.

“The short one who held you hostage, Lord Branch, is a wanted criminal in Bymar. Wanted for banditry and murder. Known by many names, but you know him now as the Faola.”

“They’re all a long way from home then if they’re all Bymarians, just like you,” Roden noted. “I’ll be sure to track them. They will be captured and judged in Carthya.”

“So be it,” a flicker of concern crossed Feall’s face, but he said nothing more.

“I can’t believe you made me do this,” Tobias chuckled. “Rush into a skirmish with no sword.”

“No, no, we didn’t make you do anything,” said Jaron as he gestured to Roden. “Everything you did today was of your own free will.”

Of his own free will.

Tobias grinned.

He liked knowing that he saved the Faola on his own.

That stupid grin didn’t leave his face, but Tobias did try to hide it when he caught Roden and Jaron glaring at him. 

But later that night, as he lay next to his dreaming Amarinda, he wondered what his actions would bring in the future.

Whatever those consequences were, they’d rest entirely on his shoulders.


	2. Joust

Drylliad usually welcomed high ranking visitors with a beautiful celebration, thanking the Saints for a safe arrival.

But it wasn’t every day that a king visited, even if he did answer to a higher power. 

And it wasn’t every day that a king’s visit fell upon a festival date.

In the streets of Drylliad, streamers fluttered from windows. Lines and lines of short banners on ropes zigzagged across buildings and houses. Poles covered in flowers had been set up, ribbons hanging down from   
their tops. 

Tents housing food from all over the realms.

Tents boasting the best imported weapons.

Tents hiding the prettiest men and women from the public eye.

It wouldn’t be long before Chaos flooded the marketplace.

Children would chase stray dogs through the festival, and occasionally, drag their favorites home to become pets. Troubadours, dancers, fire eaters. There’d be massive stages built for elaborate puppet shows.

Roden couldn’t deny how excited he was to see it all.

As a child, he’d enjoyed festivals. He insisted on dragging Latamer, his childhood friend, with him to see the jousting knights and fire breathing dancers. They never missed a single one, even when Latamer was   
convinced that he carried the plague.

Latamer was always hanging around in the back of Roden’s mind.

He should’ve been strong enough to save his friend.

At that very moment, he was awaiting orders from King Oberson, leader of Dinwallis, one of Bymar’s kingdom states, and from Jaron.

He stood in the castle’s great hall, Bymarian knight Lord Feall to his left, and Mott to his right. Behind Roden stood a small company of guards. 

Just enough to keep the peace, but not enough to distract from the festival. 

“King Jaron and I have been discussing the attack on Lord Feall,” Oberson said. He scratched at his patchy beard, “I have decided to keep my personal guard with me, though the Lady Amarinda has reassured me that   
there is a slim chance of another attack.”

“You don’t know the Faola like I do,” Feall placed an armored hand over his chestplate.

“You’re right, but I do trust Lady Amarinda’s judgement and her husband was very insistent that the bandits who attacked you have ulterior motives,” Jaron crossed his arms. “However, Lord Feall, I advise you to take   
care in the streets. The Faola haven’t resurfaced since their attack, but it did seem that at least one of them wanted you dead.”

Ah, the short bandit. 

It wasn’t very often that bandits and thieves managed to escape Roden.

He was talented at his job, his drive for justice was a fuel nobody else could really understand.

The short bandit and the Faola would be apprehended eventually.

Roden remained silent as he pondered the situations that could arise. There were guards stationed in the woods at various locations, the company of guards behind him were to patrol the outskirts of the festival,   
and he and Feall would be keeping an eye on the festivities in the center of it all. 

He didn’t want to admit that Tobias was right about the Faola. 

That they did end up redistributing the goods they’d stolen.

Saints, his inability to catch them made him tense with frustration.

There were better ways to go about delivering justice to the unfortunate. It didn’t require breaking the law.

“I only hope that the Faola don’t try to ruin this festival,” Feall joked.

“As do I,” said Jaron. “Roden, I trust your plan to work, you can send your men out as soon as you feel ready.”

A small grin crept across his face. 

There was no way Roden would say it aloud, but hearing people tell him that they ‘trust’ his plans was beyond invigorating. It was simply proof that he was an efficient leader and a capable captain.

Jaron arched an eyebrow.

Ah, Roden was still grinning.

He forced a scowl on his face.

“We’re ready to deploy.”

Roden glanced at Mott, who cleared his throat, “Will you be alright without us, Jaron?”

“I’ll have you know that I don’t require a governess to watch my every move. I won’t get into trouble.”

Nobody said a word, as nobody dared inform Jaron that despite his efforts to avoid causing a ruckus, he tended to attract danger.

Jaron threw up his hands, “Imogen’s going to be with me! Is that enough reassurance?”

“I suppose, though sometimes I believe Imogen encourages your antics,” Roden teased. He turned around, ordering his men to their positions before Jaron could protest.

“Do you have a backup plan if they do decide the festival’s too boring for them?” Mott asked quietly, following Roden out of the great hall.

He shrugged, “I predict that Jaron is going to disguise himself, Imogen and Amarinda will follow suit, and they’ll avoid Tobias as if their lives depend on it.”

Mott chuckled, “He’s quite the mother hen.”

“It’s inconvenient at times.”

The image of Tobias frantically searching through the streets brought a grin to Roden’s face. Tobias would probably try to enlist the help of the royal guard, insisting that something was wrong, only to find the trio laughing at him from the safety of a tent tavern.

“Have you any word of the Faola?” Mott asked. He pushed the castle’s front door open, and didn’t wait for Roden as he walked down the steps. “Have your scouts found anything?”

“Not exactly,” Roden confessed. The morning sun already beat down on him. He’d chosen the wrong day to wear a full suit of armor. “There’s a friend of mine who may have a few words to share, but I don’t even   
know if he’s here.”

The last of the guards crossed the castle bridge, split into two groups, and left for their posts. Mott squinted at the towering poles bedecked with ribbons and flowers, “Ah, he’s the troubadour you were telling me   
about the other day.”

“The one and only. Last I heard from him, he was busy in Mendenwal.”

“Let’s hope he makes an appearance today.”

———————————————————————————————————–

Hours passed, but still no sign of anyone remotely resembling the Faola. Roden, Mott, and Feall rode together through the streets, doing their best to avoid the unlucky few who were already succumbing to alcohol.

“Ah, day drinking,” Feall chuckled. “I understand their reasonings behind that all too well.”

A smirk crossed Mott’s face, “I can’t deny that I’ve considered smuggling a flask into meetings with regents.”

“I have smuggled a flask into meetings with regents,” Roden chuckled, but he had no intentions of trying any kind of drink anytime soon. He had a troubadour to find. “Have you seen anything Feall?”

“Not since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“Have you seen the Faola before?” Mott asked, wrinkling his nose at the sight of a woman waving at him from a scarlet tent. 

“I have, their leader is Bymarian,” Feall explained. “I don’t know his name yet, but I have suspicions. I think he comes from the kingdom of Idunn Craich, but I can’t be sure.”

“Another kingdom state,” Roden noted, still scanning the crowd for his contact. “I know of two. Bultain and Dinwallis.”

“Idunn Craich is a kingdom state too, so that’s three.”

“And the other two?”

Feall grinned, “Ulster and Midhe. Congratulations, captain, you’ve learned all five Bymarian kingdoms. Would you like a medal for that?”

Roden’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t say anything.

Despite his actions during the Avenian War, he still had to struggle with the education he’d been denied.

Noblemen within the military ranks adored pointing it out.

“Any sign of the troubadour?” Mott shielded his eyes against the blazing midday sun.

“Not yet,” Roden said. “He goes by the name Jolly, he typically prefers bright colors. He’s Bymarian, if that helps.”

“Ah,” Mott nodded. “Find a place to keep the horses. Does he differentiate between men and women? Is he a gambler?”

“He’s, ah, definitely the life of the party. Why?”

Mott dismounted, gesturing for Roden and Feall to do the same. He then tipped his head in the direction of a massive building resembling a castle, “I think I know where he is.”

“Even if it isn’t him,” Feall said as he led his horse to a post. “This seems like the area he’d be in.”

“Do you know Jolly?” asked Roden in surprise, resting his hand on his sword hilt.

“I do, as a matter of fact. He’s a favorite of Queen Danika.”

That didn’t bring any surprise.

Though Jolly didn’t remain in Carthya for long increments of time, he visited often, and he always brought tales of his escapades with whoever he chose. Often, his visits ended in a bar fight or running from a   
disgruntled spouse. 

Life was never boring with Jolly.

As they approached the temporary castle, Roden caught himself walking as slowly as he could.

Dear Saints, there was just so much to take in.

So many people hawking their wares.

Entire suckling pigs roasting on spits.

Jesters swallowing swords, fire, and many other things that would definitely kill the inexperienced.

To Roden’s embarrassment, he had to jog to catch up to Feall and Mott, his armor smacking together with loud metallic clangs.

“Don’t worry, you can have your fun soon,” Mott said, clapping Roden on the shoulder. “You’re the one who wanted to do this.”

“I know, and you’re right, I shouldn’t get distracted,” mumbled Roden as they stepped through the castle’s threshold. 

The scent of cooking meat wafted through the temporary castle, accompanied by the spicy aroma of spilled wine and abandoned sweets. 

Despite the magnificent exterior, the temporary castle looked like any other tavern. The walls were made of stone, the floor being the trampled grass, and the windows consisting of several sticks and a gap between stones. Tables bore broken legs and chipped surfaces. A staircase led up to another floor, guarded by pockmarked women in ragged dresses. Kegs lined the back wall, a bar as long as the castle’s width stood in   
front of them, and various sorts of mugs and cups hung from the ceiling.

A grin spread on Roden’s face.

He was certain that this place was a site for enjoyment.

“There, at the back,” Mott said, tilting his head towards a large crowd of men and women near the tavern’s keg wall.

“That can’t be-,” began Roden, but he knew Mott was right the second he caught a flash of a peacock green jerkin. 

Feall whistled, “That’s definitely Jolly.”

At the mere mention of his name, Jolly stood up, a dimpled smile breaking across his chiseled face, “See? I told you they’d come!”

The grin on Roden’s face instantly melted into a frown, “This isn’t going to be good.”

“Do we-,” Mott started, but he was cut off the second a group of tavern patrons shoved them all forward.

“Captain Harlowe! It’s been far too long!” Jolly exclaimed, lithely jumping from the countertop he’d been standing on. “How are you? Still pursuing that one minstrel? Saints, can’t remember her name. The one with the-”

Jolly held his hands out a fair distance from his chest, leaving Roden to uncomfortably clear his throat, “I need to ask something of you, Jolly.”

“Ah, anything, but then I need to ask something from you,” Jolly swayed on his feet, and would’ve toppled over if it weren’t for the woman who caught him. Jolly patted her cheek, “I knew you cared about me, love.   
What, or who, can I do for you, captain?”

“Have you ever heard of the Faola?”

That was all it took to force Jolly to straighten out. He frowned, “Why?”

“They’re here in Carthya,” explained Feall. “King Oberson of Dinwallis and I were attacked several days ago by them.”

“They’re in Carthya?” Jolly shot a look at the woman at his side. “Shoo, Merry, I have to talk business.”

The woman, Merry, scowled and yanked Jolly’s full tankard from him as she walked away. 

“We’ll talk later?” called Jolly.

Roden almost didn’t catch the fact that Feall’s eyes were glued to Merry’s leaving figure. 

There was something in Feall’s eyes that couldn’t be placed.

“Right, the Faola,” Feall said, jolting himself back into the conversation. “What do you know?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Jolly waggled his finger as he simultaneously smoothed out his jerkin. “Captain Harlowe, I desperately need your help before we do any talking about a subject that’ll definitely get me into trouble.”

It wasn’t the first time Jolly had asked for help. Typically, he asked for assistance in escaping somebody he’d crossed, or needed help paying off a tavern bill. The chances of anything being different were slim. 

He trusted Jolly.

Roden nodded, “It’s alright, you can tell me later, I promise I’ll help you in any way that I can.”

“No, Captain, I don’t think you under-”

“Tell me about the Faola, please.”

For a moment, Roden worried that Jolly would remain silent.

Was discussing the Faola truly that bad?

He tried not to look relieved when Jolly finally nodded.

Jolly cleared his throat, and looked over both of his shoulders to his drunk companions, “I’ve had a few run-ins with them, not terrible company, if I do say so myself. There are worse bandits that I’ve had to deal with, but still bandits.”

“What do you know of their leader?” asked Roden, holding out a hand the second Feall tried to interrupt him.

“Bangol Bandir?” Jolly chuckled, his eyebrows rising in the process. “Absolute cheater at cards. I wouldn’t want to expose him, though.”

“Bandir’s not very big…”

“We must be thinking of two different Bangol Bandirs because the one that I know could crush your head between his thighs, Captain.”

Mott smirked, “That description matches the bandit we’re looking for just perfectly.”

“Ha,” Roden didn’t bother hiding the annoyance now throbbing through his head. “Your jokes brighten my day.”

“No, no, no,” Feall blurted out, speaking before Roden could get him to remain quiet. “I’m Lord Feall, a member of Queen Danika’s court, and while traveling here I was singled out by a bandit much shorter than you. It could’ve been a woman.”

“Couldn’t be Faola then, Bandir doesn’t employ women for thievery. He uses them to poison enemies too strong to challenge in battle,” he turned to one of his friends. “Can you find Merry? I want my drink back.”

“Tobias insisted that the bandits were Faola,” Mott scratched his chin, a thoughtful expression cemented on his face. “Perhaps the bandit who attacked you, Lord Feall, wasn’t a leader at all.”

“Impossible, there’s no way a single bandit could-,” he began, but he never finished his sentence.

“By the Saints! Lord Feall? I know you,” Jolly burst, a new drink in his hand thanks to his crowd of followers. “Haven’t seen you in years, has your inheritance been resolved?”

“Inheritance?” Echoed Mott and Roden in unison.

Feall’s face darkened, “I was set up to inherit Idunn Craich, but the, ah, rules of inheritance have become muddled. Idunn Craich’s throne was left to a disgraced family, but as Queen Danika sees it, there is more to   
the story. Idunn Craich will be mine someday, but that’s beside the point. You’ll have to forgive me Jolly, we rarely conversed.”

“Ah, but that doesn’t matter, I heard everything about you from court,” said Jolly as he took a prolonged sip from his tankard.

“Anyways,” Feall cleared his throat. “Have you any idea who could’ve led the attack?”

“Possibly. But what’s in it for me?”

Roden kept his mouth shut as both Feall and Mott looked to him. He scowled, “I already promised you that I’d assist you. What more do you want?”

“I- I just,” Jolly stuttered, and he wiped his hands on his tunic.

Jolly… Nervous?

A rare occurrence indeed.

“What do you want?”

“I bet against that table over there, regarding the, uh, joust this afternoon… And the man I bet on…”

Oh no.

That’s what Jolly meant when he asked for help.

That’s why he wouldn’t speak until he knew that his request would be fulfilled.

He needed to know that there would be somebody to ride in the jousting tournament and win for him.

“That’s too much to ask, Jolly,” Mott was dangerously calm. “There’s not enough time to find somebody to ride in the place of your failed man.”

“It’s going to cost me money,” Jolly wailed. “It’s going to tarnish my reputation!”

“We’ll pay you the money you lost for the information,” Feall offered, his eyes blazing with determination.

“You should understand the importance of a reputation, sir!”

“We’ll pay you double! Triple-!”

“That’s enough,” Roden held up his hand, and a light smirk crossed his face. “I’ll ride in the joust, but I’ll only do it if you tell me what I need to know. Can you promise me that, Jolly?”

“You? Joust? Captain, that’s absurd. You don’t-!”

“You’d be surprised at what I’m capable of, my friend.”

Roden shrugged once he realized that Mott and Feall were staring at him. He’d practiced on his own time, there was a large array of perks that came with being able to use a lance on the battlefield. 

Now he’d have the chance to ride in a tournament.

Granted, it was his first official tournament, but Jolly didn’t need to know anything about that.

“Alright, fine,” Jolly looked over his shoulder again, and then gestured to a broken table in the corner. “I’ll tell you what I know about the Faola.”

“Thank you-,” Roden began, but Jolly shook his head.

“I’m trusting that you’ll win the tournament, Captain, otherwise… Things will no longer continue to work in my favor. Shoo! Go away!”

Jolly continued to wave off his companions as they approached the table. They soon lost interest in him, and turned to harass the poor minstrel in the corner.

“Right,” Jolly rubbed his hands together. “Now, there’s rumors following the Faola like nobody’s business. I’ve seen sections of them working in Bymar and Avenia, so they’re not just exclusive to Carthya.”

“Bymar, that would line up with why they’d attack Feall but not King Jaron,” Roden noted, wishing he had something to write down everything Jolly said.

“Could the attacker have been a woman?” Feall asked, his brow furrowing.

“Hush, let the man speak,” Mott held up a hand.

Feall shut his mouth.

“Thank you,” said Jolly. “It’s entirely possible you were attacked by a woman, but I doubt it, Faola women are much smarter than the men. They’d administer poison to you in doses till it seemed like you died of natural causes. They’re all quite dominant, too, frightening once they get you tied up and-”

“Jolly. Remain on the subject.”

“Sorry Captain, where was I? Ah yes, potential identities. Several members of the Faola adopt names that aren’t their own, some use it to instill fear and others use their stolen names to justify their causes. Notable   
aliases include Veldergrath, Bevin Conner, Mireldis Thay, Joth Kerwyn, King Eckbert himself. It’s a way of being able to hide the fact that they work with bandits.”

“I recognize Mireldis Thay,” Feall murmured, but he couldn’t remain quiet any longer. He smacked the table, “She’s what stands in the way of Idunn Craich.”

“It would be idiotic for Lady Thay to use her first name while fighting as a bandit,” Mott pointed out.

Jolly nodded, “And then attack you. Besides, I know Lady Thay, she’s far from here. It’s just somebody tarnishing her name, just as the bandits who sport Lord Kerwyn’s name are trying to do. No, no, I suspect that you’re dealing with somebody else. Have any details I can go by?”

“Nothing, aside from the height,” Roden said. “He, or she, was short, a little bit shorter than the average woman.”

“Perfect!” Jolly exclaimed, standing up as he did so. “I’ll see what I can do about finding your mystery bandit. And don’t forget to win that tournament, Captain, I highly suggest that you don’t lose.”

———————————————————————————————————–

“I’m beginning to worry that you haven’t gotten anything keeping you away from making stupid choices,” Mott said, tapping Roden’s head. “Jaron’s rubbed off on you.”

“Ah, well, I need to learn all that I can about the Faola, and Jolly is our best bet,” Roden said, strapping a plate of armor to each of his legs.

The tent he and Mott were sheltered in was blindingly hot. 

The armor Roden put on made the heat nearly unbearable. 

“You’re sure you’re going to be alright?” asked Mott as he shoved a helmet in Roden’s direction.

He shrugged, “There’s danger in everything I do.”

It wasn’t his first time using a lance, he’d trained for several months after he realized the value in being able to wield a lance while in a battle. Roden knew the risks and he knew the rules.

But a splintering lance was far different from a sword.

A splintering lance might not hit you directly, but chances were high that a piece of wood could lodge itself in your face or neck.

Not an enjoyable way to die… Not that dying is something to be enjoyed.

Roden pulled the helmet on over his head, and slid the visor up, “Would you give me a favor of yours to carry with me?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please remember my name if I fall on this lovely afternoon,” Roden joked, slamming the visor over his face.

Mott scowled, “You’re not going to die, and if you do, it means you’re awful at jousting.”

“I suppose I have to win now so I can prove you wrong.”

“I’m concerned, were you not planning on winning in the first place?”

“There’s always a chance at losing, but I try not to let that be an option. This will be over soon, my friend,” Roden’s voice was muffled behind the helmet. “We’ll meet at the tavern this evening, Jolly said he’d be waiting there.”

The sound of trumpeters shook the summer air. Mott frowned, and held the tent flap open for Roden, silent and disapproving as he almost always was. However, he did clap Roden’s armored shoulder and whispered   
a few words of luck before he made his way to the stands.

Children waved multicolored flags at him, Roden waved back.

Ah, how he’d dreamed of taking up a lance.

Jolly’s rider, the man Roden was replacing, was an older knight named Cronnach Nyrsate. Sir Nyrsate’s coat of arms had been painted onto a wooden shield and leaned against the judges’ box… Which usually sat 

Jaron, Imogen, the Prime Regent, and three other guests. 

It was a surprise to see Jaron holding Imogen’s hand in their seats and not off causing trouble. Harlowe sat next to them.

Saints, it would be humiliating if Roden lost in front of his father. 

Sir Nyrsate’s horse was supposed to be ridden for the match, but Roden had just enough time to pull enough strings and get his own horse armored and ready to go.

That would give him a slight advantage. His horse, a gift from Bymar, was massive. Bred specifically for war. It made the rider taller, never stopped, and brought a crushing power that rivaled all other warhorses. 

It was a little frustrating, however, to see Roden’s horse bearing the Nyrsate coat of arms rather than the Harlowe coat of arms. 

Roden swung up into the saddle…

And finally allowed himself a look at his opponent.

He didn’t recognize the coat of arms, nor did he recognize the horse. All Roden saw was a large man in battle scarred armor, which would’ve been painted black at one point. A red plum erupted from his helmet.

Definitely more than a little intimidating.

Jaron stood up, and raised his hands out to the stands full of festival goers. Roden was too far away to hear anything. 

Not that he would’ve been able to hear anything anyways.

He was far too focused on his opponent.

“Sir! Sir Nyrsate!” Bellowed a flock of snot nosed teenagers, street rats, and esteemed young heirs to noble houses. 

Roden waved a hand at them, he couldn’t speak now. He needed to focus.

“Ah, good sir!” Shouted a man over the roar of the crowd. Jaron must’ve said something funny. The man waved his hands. “Sir!”

Roden squinted, Jolly was there to see him off. 

“Good luck,” called Jolly as he launched himself over the barrier keeping the viewers out. A girl followed behind. “Me and Merry came to give you a send off, and the kids of course, you simply have to let them send   
you off.”

“A favor for you, sir knight,” Merry bowed deeply, retrieving a dirty blue scarf from the front of her gown as she did so. She tied it to Roden’s right wrist before stepping back to help several members of Roden’s   
screaming fans over the side of the fence.

“Remember, if you knock him off his horse, it’s an instant win,” Jolly patted Roden’s thigh, and hefted a lance over to him.

“I know the rules,” Roden huffed as he tucked the lance under his arm.

A page stepped out from Jaron’s box, holding out a flag like a sword.

The flag went up. 

Roden charged forwards, a small band of children howling as they chased him and his horse for several feet.

All he had to do was aim for the center, lower the lance, and hold firm.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The crowd began to scream the second a lance cracked-

Stars blurred across Roden’s vision.

He missed!

Saints, he hoped Mott didn’t see that. Jolly’s concerned face from the crowd didn’t help, Merry was the one to get him a new lance. 

Flag up, screaming children, crowd cheering.

Roden missed again.

It took three points to win a match. Points were earned when a lance was broken or a rider was toppled. One point for each broken lance, and so far, Roden hadn’t broken any of his.

He was two points down.

One point away from losing.

Anger burst through his lungs.

How could he have been so stupid!? Signing up for a joust! He’d never ridden in front of so many screaming civilians before!

The children who’d been chasing at him clamored for his attention, but they backed away the second he didn’t say anything.

“Lean in the saddle,” Merry said as she handed Roden a fresh lance. She patted his horse’s shoulder, “I know you’re fierce, unhorse him and that’s a match.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Roden confessed, unsure if she’d heard him over the roar of the crowd. 

“You’ve done it twice just now, third time’s the charm. Go on, don’t let Jolly down. Or me. You’re wearing my favor, and everybody in town knows that it’s mine. You’ll damage my reputation.”

“I’m so sorry about your reputation.”

“As you should! Be more sorry about your reputation, sir knight!” Merry shot back, her hands on her hips. “Are you so quick to give up?!”

The crowd screamed, Roden jolted to attention.

His opponent charged early, ready to finish the match off.

Merry cried out, and slapped out at Roden’s horse’s flank, causing the mighty beast to rear up.

Roden shouldered the lance, forcing the horse in a straight path down the arena.

Lean in the saddle

He could hear Merry’s words ringing in his head.

Time seemed to slow around him as he blocked out everything save for the man barreling towards him. The crowd’s screams were muffled.

Like they were shrieking underneath a pond’s surface. 

Lean in the saddle.

The rider was coming closer and closer to him.

Roden gripped the lance and-

Wood splintered. 

The unmistakable sound of metal colliding with the solid ground cut through the muffled noises. 

He was still in the saddle, holding a shattered lance.

Roden was still in his saddle.

He’d made a hit!

Instantly, Roden turned his horse around itself, and held up the broken lance to Merry and Jolly. His opponent was being dragged out of the arena by his foot. Pages chased the runaway horse. Mott was standing among the crowd, his hands above his head. 

“That was amazing!” Jolly shrieked as he ran to Roden. “Knocked him clean off!”

A trail of all sorts of children, the ones who’d chased Roden down the arena, came flooding, waving their banners and shouting for “Sir Nyrsate’s” attention.

“You better pay up,” Roden said, tossing the broken lance to the ground.

The children all scrambled for it.

“Oh, I will, I promise I will,” Jolly vowed, grabbing Merry by the shoulders to plant kisses all over her face. “Dear Saints, I’ve won too much money.”

“Don’t gamble on drunks ever again,” Merry snapped as she shoved Jolly away from her.

“Oh, I won’t, I promise I won’t.”

Roden was certain that he and Merry were thinking the same thing: Jolly would certainly go on to bet on more drunks.

But perhaps it was worth it.

After all, Roden received his chance to ride in a jousting tournament.

And he’d guaranteed an opportunity to learn more about the Faola.

It wouldn’t be long before he caught them.


	3. To Stress a Tobias

The sun was gleaming in a cloudless sky for the first time in several days.It was difficult to find the motivation to move out of the sunlight. Light poured in through the large windows peppered throughout Amarinda's room. Occasionally, the light reflected off of the many glass bottles lining the far wall, creating a flash of color.

Beautiful displays of light caused by different colored glass bottles filled with who-knows-what.

An unknown perk of being married to a physician in training.

Saints, was this how a cat felt when sleeping on a rock? Doused in sunlight and colorful reflections?

"Is it wrong that I'm more excited for this afternoon than I've been for weeks?" Imogen asked, lacing up both of her boots. "I know I shouldn't find it fun, terrorizing Tobias like this."

Amarinda grinned. She plucked at the loose strings on her borrowed pages' tunic, "I love terrorizing Tobias. Usually because he ends up giving a lecture and then breaking into the widest grin. I think he secretly likes being the one to make sure everybody's still alive after anything remotely enjoyable happens."

"He certainly doesn't seem that way," noted Imogen.

"Ah, I felt the same way too."

Imogen laughed, which made Amarinda laugh. It was easy to be herself when dressed as a petty thief. It was easy to let herself smile when preparing for an afternoon of fun with her best friend.

Oh, Tobias.

Truth be told, Amarinda didn't expect herself to fall head over heels for Tobias all those years ago, she'd expected to marry into the Carthyan throne. 

But fate had a different plan for her, and Amarinda certainly wasn't complaining.

"Right, well," Amarinda stuffed her long brown hair into the ugliest cap she could find. "I've got a whole list of things that I want to get done before you and Jaron have to, ah, attend business."

"I don't like that devilish smirk, the only business being taken care of is completely official," but the pink tinge to Imogen's ears gave her away.

It was no secret that Jaron had made a sport of squeezing in, ah, personal business affairs into his busy schedule whenever he could.

Though it was definitely a secret that Imogen was the one encouraging Jaron.

Unable to stop herself, Amarinda began to fan her face, imitating Jaron to the best of her ability, "Oh Imogen, this joust is simply delightful. I love sitting down. Let's be completely behaved. And afterwards, we can go to the chapel and pray."

"Oh, shut up! You know how much of a chore it is to get Jaron into any kind of church!" Imogen's frustrated tone melted into a laugh. She grabbed a pillow, and hurled it at Amarinda's head.

It didn't take much effort from Amarinda to catch the pillow.

Even if Imogen had thrown the pillow with the intention to hit her target, Amarinda would've been able to catch it.

Sometimes being the princess from one of the strongest kingdoms in the realms paid off. 

Amarinda could hold her own in a fight, no matter how much the other women in court tried to deny it. 

The door creaked open, and Jaron slithered his way in. He'd already begun to smirk.

There'd be no getting rid of that smirk until Tobias had lectured the trio and then blushed when he realized that they enjoyed giving him a hard time.

"I've sent Roden, Mott, and Lord Feall off to search for the bandits. The Faola," Jaron said as he shamelessly tugged his tunic over his head and replaced it with a worn down shirt. "I don't know if I should wish them luck or tell them that this is becoming a wild goose chase."

"Roden won't stop until he knows why Feall was attacked," Amarinda pointed out. She made her way over to the massive bench resting in the sunlight.

"Maybe there's no underlying reason for the attack, though, and that's what I'm trying to get Roden to realize by sending him off."

Amarinda snorted.

Ever since the attack, Tobias brought up the Faola whenever he was near Roden or Mott, and he always tried to paint them as the good guys.

Tobias looked for the best in people.

It was one of the many things Amarinda loved about him.

At one point, Tobias began explaining the Faola to her. Of course, he was unaware of the fact that Amarinda knew much more than she let on. 

Much more.

But she didn't have the heart to crush Tobias's ideas. 

And she knew that maybe there was more to the Faola's story.

If she was correct with her assumptions, then Amarinda knew exactly why Feall had been attacked. 

If she was incorrect in her assumptions, then Amarinda was grasping at Bymarian straws. 

She would wait to give her information. She would wait until she had proof of her beliefs. 

Until Tobias recognized that the Faola were just another gang.

Or that he'd been right the entire time.

"-and apparently there's going to be flavored ice, which I thought was a winter thing," Jaron was tugging on a holed boot.

Had she really been so trapped in her own thoughts as to not notice the conversation around her?

Wouldn't be the first time that happened. 

"Amarinda came up with a list for all of us," Imogen said with a smile. "I think I'm the most excited to see the performers."

"Ah, but you'll want to be careful, some people are ridiculously good at picking pockets," interjected Amarinda. 

"I'm excited for the food," Jaron kissed the top of Imogen's head, and followed the sweet gesture by flinging her braid over her face.

Imogen swatted him away, "Shoo! Shoo you starving boy!"

"No! Speak to me kindly! My heart bruises easier- ow!- than my skin!" He laughed, dodging Imogen's giggling blows. Jaron caught her by the wrists, and spun her into an embrace, "Now, what do you two say to leaving through the windows? Tobias will never see it coming. . ."

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was only one instance where they nearly got caught.

Jaron insisted that he knew where one of the best troubadours in the realms was. He led Amarinda and Imogen halfway across the festival grounds to one of the most elaborate temporary buildings they'd seen before.

Somebody had really gone and set up an imitation of a castle.

Amarinda couldn't believe it.

"Don't worry, he's a friend of mine," Jaron insisted as he stepped into the temporary castle, which turned out to be a massive tavern.

"Have you told me about him?" Amarinda asked. 

She had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly who Jaron was talking about.

"I haven't told you," he shrugged his way past a pair of massive Gelynians. "But I have told Imogen. Even got him to come play while you and Tobias were out and about."

"He has the most wonderful voice and the cleverest songs," Imogen gripped Jaron's hand, and then reached out to Amarinda.

She took Imogen's hand, determined not to be lost in the crowd, "This troubadour, he doesn't happen to have a song in his repertoire about Roden, does he?"

"Oh, he definitely does," confirmed Imogen.

"It's actually really funny, it's not what I was expecting, that's for sure," Jaron added. "Ah, there he is! Hey! Jolly! Over here!"

All it took was one glance at the peacock green tunic, and Amarinda knew.

She knew Jolly all too well.

"Ah! Your, uh, my old friend!" Bellowed Jolly. He was strumming a loot. "It's good to see you! Have you brought me company?"

"This is my wife, Imogen, and my dear friend, Amarinda."

Jaron's wink nearly went unnoticed. However, Jolly nodded, and pushed the black haired girl next to him into the crowd, "Get me a drink, Merry, and don't come back unless it has cream and a cherry. Ah ha! Merry, cherry. My lyricism is a divine gift."

"I can tell," Amarinda didn't mean for her tone to suddenly become so dry.

Jolly was bad news wherever he went.

“I’ve written a new,” Jolly hiccuped, “-song. You’ll have to let me come sing it for you.”

“A new song?” Jaron’s eyes were glimmering with mirth when he looked back at Imogen and Amarinda.

“You’ll have to come sing it for us,” Imogen said. “Is it a happy one?”

“I suppose so, I wrote it about a bandit king from Bymar. Or maybe I should change it to bandit queen, that’s more true to the story.”

“True to what story?” Jaron asked, his grinning face sinking into a frown.

The tiny slip gave Amarinda’s suspicions even more traction. She remained silent, waiting for Jolly to explain himself.

“The story of- Merry’s coming back!”

“True to what story!?” Jaron repeated, but even he had to be aware of the fact that Jolly was no longer interested.

He got that way when he was drunk, Amarinda knew that much.

"Oh! Captain! The captain’s here too!" Jolly called, waving his hand. "Captain Harlowe's-"

They were gone in the blink of an eye.

Roden didn't impede on Jaron's tendency to cause trouble while disguised, but he did tend to tell people things that he wasn't supposed to.

Specifically Tobias.

They simply couldn't risk being caught.

"I didn't know that your friend was Jolly of Angelmarr," Amarinda said as soon as they were out of the temporary tavern.

Jolly was Bymarian, a native to the city Angelmarr.

He frequented Queen Danika's court.

Rumors followed him.

Rumors that were unfortunately mostly true.

"I didn't know you knew him," Jaron shrugged. "He's a fun bloke to be around."

"I suppose so, he's quite flamboyant."

"All the more reason to enjoy his company."

Amarinda was preparing to explain her distrust for Jolly, when Imogen squeaked in excitement.

Right there, in the middle of a grass arena, was a group of dancers in scarlet suits and headdresses made of ribbon.

They were breathing fire.

So, Amarinda bit her tongue.

She didn't have it in herself to spoil Imogen's obvious delight.

But she'd definitely point the situation out to Jaron later that evening.

The fire breathers swallowed torches, showed them to the crowd after they'd been extinguished, and then opened their mouths to the sky.

Fire leapt into the air. 

If it hadn't been for a flash of a navy blue physician's coat, they would've stayed there longer, mesmerized by the fire breathers.

Imogen was still talking about it even after they'd run into other performers doing sill tricks with their pet monkeys.

Queen Danika had a monkey at one point, Amarinda barely remembered anything good about it. All the monkey did was shred fabrics and grab at people.

A little frightening for a young girl. 

Tobias nearly caught up to them several times after the fire breathers.

And each time they managed to escape. . .

Until they met their fate at the hands of a toothless old woman.

Oh, Amarinda couldn't resist. She knew that she'd regret her actions the next day, and yet, not even that knowledge would stop her from what she was about to do.

Just an hour ago, Imogen took control of the trio, and dragged both Jaron and Amarinda to a rickety wagon manned by a rickety woman.

She had a single tooth hanging over her cracked lips.

Turned out she had a wicked sense of humor. She later told Amarinda she enjoyed pretending to be a fairytale witch at festivals.

She also confirmed that her trade had gotten her into boiling water before.

Literally.

The wagon was decorated like something out of a fairytale. Gilded cages held shimmering twigs inside, which the rickety woman insisted were fairies when children asked about them. The rickety woman sat in a chair near a cauldron.

A boiling cauldron.

Every so often, the woman would lower a veil over her face, turn her back to the crowd, and lift a large spoon from the cauldron. 

She never revealed what she was making. . . Until she deemed the crowd large enough.

The rickety old woman was making the best miniature apple pies Amarinda had ever eaten.

And Amarinda had eaten some very fine pies before.

"I'm doing it," Amarinda said, patting the extra coin purse she brought. "I'm buying a dozen more."

Jaron belched, "Am- Amarinda we've each had at least four. Aren't you- don't you-"

"Feel sick?" 

Oh dear.

Their babysitter found them.

Tobias stood with his hands on his hips, obviously trying his best to scowl, "I've been looking everywhere for you three! There's a threat of bandits! Thieves! You could have at least let a guard trail you! All I ask is that- oh dear."

Amarinda hid her smirk as she trailed her fingers through Tobias's thick, dark hair. That would soften him up. She shrugged, "We only wanted to have fun, Tobias."

"It's different when you're left to fend for yourself," Imogen muttered, biting into her fifth apple pie.

"There's no point in having fun if it's not safe," countered Tobias. But the drooling grin he was fighting away was all too revealing.

"Would you feel better if you came with us?" Amarinda reached out to grab Tobias's hand, and rolled her head to the left.

If Jaron was clever enough, he'd seize this opportunity to melt back into the crowd. 

“I’d feel better if you came with me,” Tobias mumbled. “Would you, un, would you-?”

“Spend the afternoon with my husband?” Amarinda glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, Jaron and Imogen had managed to slip away. 

Good for them.

Amarinda rattled her coin purse, “Care to get sick from too many apple pies?”

Tobias’s eyes lit up, “You’re asking me to do something foolish.”

“That’s right, I am.”

“I’d gladly eat myself sick from pies with you, Amy.”

“And that’s-,” Amarinda pressed a kiss to Tobias’s still open mouth, “-what every girl wants to hear from her noble love.”


	4. I'm NOT a Baby!

"It's going to be a nice evening," Jaron insisted, but he knew that a nice evening was a little too much to ask for.

Especially when it involved the Dragon's Keep, the weekend, and a certain captain of the guard who was ready to make a fool of himself.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Donning a set of rags for a night out on the town. 

After all, Jaron and Imogen had their escapade at the festival only last week. At this rate, they'd be abandoning their duties all too regularly, and leaving Tobias with a massive headache that could only be cured by seeing Jaron seated on the throne and far far far away from anything remotely entertaining.

If things went wrong, it was obviously the will of the Saints. 

Obviously.

"You say that now," Imogen only shrugged. "I'm almost expecting to see a bar fight. I'll be disappointed if one doesn't happen."

"Are you hoping to see violence?"

"No, I'm just hoping to see you get your arse handed to you for once."

Jaron froze in his tracks, hands on his hips. He pouted as hard as he could, "Imogen, I'd never be foolish enough to get my arse handed to me."

"Uh- huh, you always insist on not being a fool moments before you do something foolish. I know you Jaron."

Unfortunately, she was right, and Jaron knew that. 

He wouldn't be able to argue against her point, so instead he kissed the top of her head. Imogen didn't take back what she said, but she still reached for Jaron's hand.

Seemed like she wasn't entirely fed up with him yet.

They could hear laughter from the tavern echoing through the alleyways. People were out arm in arm, hand in hand, and sometimes fist to face. Jaron caught himself grinning. Without a warning, he spun Imogen around, pulled her into an embrace, and pressed a sloppy kiss on her lips.

She squealed, eventually slipping into a giggling mess, "Vagabond!"

"You like it," Jaron insisted, his arm now draped over her shoulders.

"I most certainly did not."

"Yes, you most certainly did."

"Did not!

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

At this rate, he'd only kiss her again. Imogen had to have known that, as each time Jaron leaned in close, she wriggled her way away from him. It didn't take long before they were laughing.

There wasn't any other person Jaron would want to be with, or any other person he'd rather terrorize.

Although Mott was a close second. 

Followed by Tobias.

And then followed by Roden.

Truth be told, he did get quite the rise out of picking on his closest friends. 

Jaron did his best to kiss Imogen, but she successfully dodged him.

Chaos was threatening to spill out of the Dragon's Keep and into the streets. Laughter rumbled the outside of the tavern. Loud music seemed to be breaking out of the windows. 

However, it seemed like there hadn't been any fights.

Yet.

"Into the fray we go," Jaron announced as he pushed open the door for Imogen.

Imogen wrinkled her nose, "Can we go home now?" 

"And hurt Roden's feelings? He'd be so upset that we didn't come to see him drain two full barrels of something only the Saints know about."

"I think it's sad that he does that."

"So long as he doesn't vomit on the soldiers, I don't see it as a problem."

"I know, but- I don't know, it just seems like- it seems like he's hurting. This isn't how you get over something that hurts."

No.

No it wasn't how you got over something that brought you pain. It only pushed it away. It only bought you an opportunity to forget everything.

But Jaron had no intention of forcing Roden to stop doing something that eased that hurt. 

Eased that painful ache nobody else could see.

Jaron shook his shoulders, determined not to confront his own bitter memories. He gestured to a wall lined with kegs of alcohol, "Do you think they'll have fruit juice for me? You know how I get without my juice."

"I'm sure they'll have a special pitcher full of fresh juice just for you," Imogen teased, reaching for Jaron's hand. "Is that our favorite troubadour I see?"

Sure enough, perched on a table, was Jolly of Angelmarr. 

Dressed head to toe in purple and pink, Jolly was a sight for sore eyes. He was waving an ornate lute in the air with one hand, and spilling a drink on his spectators with the other. 

"Has anybody seen my drink girl? I need a new drink!" Jolly declared as the last of his tankard's contents spilled out onto the floor. 

"Jolly!" Jaron cried, waving at his friend. "You're, ah, you're looking quite well!"

"Oh yes! I feel," he coughed. "I feel amazing! It'd be better if I got myself a new drink. Have you got any, Your Majesty?"

Normally, Jaron would've had to lie about being mistaken for the king despite actually being the king, but almost every customer in the Dragon's Keep was too drunk to even see straight.

"Would it be mean to make him play a song?" Jaron asked innocently. "Try to get him to dance at the same time?"

"Is he actually drunk?" Imogen crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and reached for Jaron's hand again. 

"If he can successfully play us a song, then no, he's not drunk. But! If he plays the first few bars and begins to cry, then he's most definitely drunk."

"Get him to play something fun."

Jaron practically had to wave his arms above his head to get Jolly to play a song, which quickly evolved into a bawdy ballad about a young lady and her goat man lover.

Jolly didn't cry while he sang, but he did repeat the song three times in a row. Both Jaron and Imogen agreed that Jolly might not have been entirely sober, but not entirely drunk either. 

More and more people poured into the tavern, the atmosphere growing louder and louder as each person stepped in. Imogen led Jaron to the wooden bar protecting a wall of kegs. There they waited for any sign of Tobias and Amarinda.

Finding Roden in this mess would be awful.

"Oh! I see them!" Imogen exclaimed, tugged on Jaron's shirtsleeve.

"Dear Saints I already hate it here," Tobias was gripping Amarinda's hand as if he was going to be swept away in a sea of drunk customers. 

Amarinda smiled, "I think it's fun. Though I can't be drinking too much, I'm going to be meeting with one of Queen Danika's ladies about a situation on Idunn Craich."

Idunn Craich, Jaron recognized the name. It was one of the five kingdom states that made up Bymar.

"What kind of situation?" Jaron arched an eyebrow, curious as to what Amarinda would say.

"Two years ago there was an alleged alliance between Idunn Craich's ruling noble house and King Vargan. It was handled by several lords of Queen Danika's court, which shouldn't have happened. Very messy, the lords murdered most of the house, we've been trying to locate anybody who might've survived."

"If you need any help, I'll put the guard up to it."

"Thank you, Jaron," Amrinda nodded. "However, I don't think- I don't think we're going to find anybody. Danika wants to make amends."

"You never know, people tend to survive-"

"You came!" Burst Roden, a sunshine smile painted all over his face. He threw his arms around the nearest person, and ultimately managed to crush Amarinda, Jaron, and Tobias together in a massive embrace. 

"How tipsy are you?" Tobias croaked as he tried to wriggle his way free.

"I actually haven't, ah," Roden peeked over his shoulder. "I haven't drank anything. Made a blithering fool of myself so now I have reason to drink myself to oblivion, but that's alright!"

"You're sure you're still sober?"

"Absolutely, which makes my mistake even worse."

A mistake was made? 

While Roden was sober?

A devilish grin wormed its way to Jaron's face, "Aren't you going to tell us? I'm awfully curious now. You've managed to get my attention despite the clamor."

Roden's smile grew wider just as his tanned face grew a deep red, "I, ah, I was talking to Jolly-"

"I can already see where your mistake was made. Nobody should ever talk to him when he's not sober."

"Right, well, I, ah, was talking to Jolly and got really, er, excited about speaking to somebody who'd caught my eye."

Jaron didn't think it was possible to look both absolutely elated and completely humiliated at the same time, but Roden somehow managed to pull it off.

"Did they reject you?" Amarinda asked. "I didn't know people rejected you, Roden. I didn’t know you flirted with people either."

"Well I don’t, and, uh, I marched right up to this person, looked them dead in the eye and-," he paused, his childish smile melting into a cringe. "And I said 'it's a wonderful evening'."

"That's not all you said, isn't it?" asked Jaron, though he already knew the answer.

"You're, ah, you're right. I really said 'it's a wonderful night for an evening', and M- this person, sorry, said 'the sky has weather outside'. . . And then told me to piss off. Me. To piss off."

It was hard not to laugh. 

Jaron snorted, coughed, and finally cleared his throat, "I'm sorry, you told them it was a nice night for an evening, they then told you that the sky has weather and told you to go away. Not your, ah, not your most romantic moment."

"Barkeep! What's the strongest whatever you have here tonight?" Roden asked, turning all attention away from his failed flirtations. 

Tobias, Amarinda, Jaron, and Imogen all shared a glance as Roden proceeded to order five tankards full of something potent and salty. 

Thank the Saints they all managed not to laugh. 

"Are you going to tell us who the lucky person is who caught your eye and managed to be brave enough to turn you away?" Tobias did his best to duck as a very large man began dancing.

"No, and I'm going to get so drunk I don't remember anything," Roden shot back. "First I'm going to drink these, and then I'm going to drain three kegs of mead. Jaron, put Feall in charge for the next two days, recovery is going to take a while."

"It couldn't have been that bad. . ." muttered Imogen. 

"Oh, trust me, it was."

And Roden tilted his head back and drained his entire tankard.

Jaron hid his concern, it wasn't normal for somebody to be able to do that. However, Tobias didn't seem shocked, probably because he'd been the one to deal with Roden's fierce hangovers.

"Are you sure we can't go home now?" Tobias batted his lashes.

"Pouting like that only works for pretty girls, and you're neither of those, so please stop before I have to burn my eyes," Jaron teased. "Let Roden drink his fill, and then we'll go home. I'd like to help Amarinda with her Bymarian situation."

"It'll get messy if more details come to light," Amarinda took a seat near Jaron, her hand on Tobias's back.

"What do you mean?" asked Imogen.

Despite the noise, a wave of uncomfortable quiet rippled through their conversation. Several glances passed between Tobias and Amarinda. 

"Bymar is split into five kingdom states, and ruled by separate noble houses. There's several houses, seventeen that are recognized by the crown," Amarinda explained. "Only five rule the kingdom states, which leaves a lot of room for jealousy. Dainka and Norman are technically high queen and high king, what they say goes, and nobody can challenge that unless the seventeen houses can unanimously agree that the policy needs to be changed.

"Three years ago, House Thay ruled Idunn Craich, and there were rumors that King Graer Thay was making a deal with Vargan. Danika and Norman were occupied, so the noble houses took it on themselves to subdue House Thay. The entire family was imprisoned, most of them slaughtered. Danika and Norman were able to prevent further bloodshed, but several members of House Thay are gone. There's no record of their deaths and no bodies anywhere. 

"However, there are, ah, rumors, about members of House Thay trying to make their way back to court. Supposedly, Lady Mireldis Thay has been spotted in Carthya. Danika has sent several members of her court to confirm or deny these rumors. Feall and I will be helping, too, but it's very unlikely that anything will-"

"Feall's told me all about-," Roden hiccuped. "Lady Thay. They're coming to collect evidence, not the girl."

"How do you know that?" Amarinda's voice had taken an edge. . . But no reply came from Roden as he drained his third tankard.

Jaron scratched the back of his neck, he'd heard about the situation on Idunn Craich.

But he had no idea how Queen Danika's court members would be able to find one young woman who could be anywhere in the country.

He wondered if Roden’s drunken musings were correct. To him, it seemed more likely that they were coming to collect evidence against House Thay, especially if Feall was involved.

Feall had a love for justice.

It would be difficult to let him return to Bymar, as he’d done much for Drylliad during the last few weeks. 

“Here comes Jolly,” Imogen said, jerking her head in the troubadour’s direction.

“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t- Hello again!” Jaron forced himself to smile. He wasn’t in the mood for fun and games anymore.

He wanted to figure out Amarinda’s Bymarian political puzzle.

“Did you make Roden cry?” Jolly’s cheery demeanor instantly faded into hostility. 

“I didn’t,” Tobias held up his hands. Mirth sparkled in his eyes as he pointed at Jaron, “But he did.”

“I did not make Roden cry!” Jaron insisted, completely aware of how indignant he sounded.

“I don’t cry!” Roden held up his fifth tankard to the ceiling. “Not about anything!”

Jaron rolled his eyes, continuing his merciless teasing, “Yes you do, you cried about a basket full of kittens abandoned on the curb. You massive baby.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“Yes you are,” Jaron and Amarinda said in unison. They looked at each other in surprise before bursting into laughter. 

Jolly reached for Roden’s tankard, who jerked away, sloshing most of the contents onto the ground and onto Jolly’s bright clothing.

“He tried to hit on somebody, it didn’t go well for either of them,” Jaron explained. “Or at least, that’s what it sounds like.”

“Don’t worry, I know,” Jolly once again reached for Roden’s drink. “You’re acting like a child!”

“I am not!” was Roden’s bone rattling reply. 

“Are too!” 

“Am not!

“Hand Jolly the tankard, Roden, you’re making a mess,” Tobias said firmly.

Jaron coughed to cover his laugh as Roden stared at Tobias with eyes full of betrayal, and then shoved his tankard to Jolly’s outstretched hand.

However, Jolly wasn’t finished. He beckoned for the fifth tankard, “I’ll need that one too.”

“You’re ruining my evening,” grumbled Roden as he handed over the final tankard. “Stiff.”

“Baby.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“You’re going to make him cry!” Jaron snickered, earning a push from Imogen.

He knew very well that he deserved that push.

“I don’t- dear Saints somebody hide me,” Roden said as he tried to duck behind Tobias. “It’s her.”

“Hello Merry,” said Jaron, a series of greetings from everybody else chorusing behind him.

“Hello all,” Merry nodded. “You’ve got quite the faces for a group of friends in a tavern.”

“Roden ruined it for us,” Jaron snipped. This time, he got an elbow to the ribs, “Hey! That hurts! And she knows I’m joking!”

“Did you, ah, did you put him up to that?” 

“Put him up to-,” Amarinda began.

Jolly was ready with a response, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Merry.”

“I think you do know what I’m talking about.”

All eyes shot to Jolly, who squirmed on his feet.

Only a few seconds ticked by before he threw his hands up to surrender, “Alright! Fine! Yes, it was me! Happy?”

Merry frowned, “No. It was mean. Can I talk to you for a moment, Captain Harlowe?”

“I don’t know who that is,” Roden insisted.

However, that didn’t stop Merry. She took him by the elbow, excused herself, and dragged Roden away from the wood bar.

“I told him to speak with Merry. As friends! Don’t glare at me so! He really said ‘Nice night for an evening’,” Jolly snickered, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “Saints, he’s so funny.”

“Not the type of prank I’d play, but it was certainly devious,” Jaron was ready to dodge Imogen’s elbow, only to receive a light tap to the back of his head. “What!?”

“It was mean, and now Roden’s embarrassed, you know he was looking forward to tonight,” Imogen scowled. 

“I wasn’t about to let his entire evening be ruined.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I still think it was funny. ‘Nice night for an evening’,” Jolly was the only one laughing. 

Imogen inhaled, “There’s a difference between laughing at somebody and laughing with somebody. Roden was obviously mortified and not in the mood.”

“In Roden’s defense, Merry shot back with ‘the sky has weather’, which is equally embarrassing.”

“Merry told him that the sky has weather?” Tobias snorted.

“What idiots,” Jolly smiled. “Anyways, do you want to play a drinking game with me?”

Everybody instantly said no, which then led to everybody laughing. 

Jaron glanced over his shoulder, trying to look for Roden and Merry. As much as he would’ve liked to laugh at another form of ‘a nice night for an evening’, he didn’t want to see his friend make an absolute fool of himself.

He could’ve sworn he saw Roden’s blue and gold tunic near the far corner.

And he could’ve sworn he saw somebody get- somebody-

The atmosphere shattered.

Somebody had been thrown out of the tavern’s glass window.

Fighting broke out amongst all of the bar customers, even the ones who'd been friends before the fight broke out. Men were laughing as they turned around and knocked the teeth out of the person nearest to them. Tobias' eyes went wide, almost like a pair of dinner plates were growing out of his head.

"Can we please go now?" Imogen asked, ducking as a tankard came careening towards the wall behind her.

"At this rate," Jaron jumped to his feet, a smile spreading on his face. "At this rate, we're going to have to fight our way out! Roden! Where'd you go?!"

A fist came flying towards Jaron's face, but he launched himself directly at his laughing attacker to keep the blow from hitting one of his friends, or worse, his wife.

It didn't take much for the attacker to throw his hands at somebody else. Jaron decided right then and there that they all needed to leave. He reached out for Imogen's hand, and practically yanked her to her feet.

In a way, dodging punches became a game.

Except in this game, you risked losing your teeth.

Jaron frantically looked for Roden each time he had the chance, ultimately deciding that Roden was just going to have to hold his own this time.

Imogen's safety was the top priority.

Somewhere along the way, Jolly got lost in the crowd. Jaron didn't mind. He had the quiet feeling that this whole bar fight could be pinned on his shoulders.

And he had an even louder feeling that maybe Roden had been the one who caused the fight in the first place.

"Right, any bruises?" Tobias asked the second they stepped out of the Dragon's Keep and into the cold night air.

"I'm clean," Jaron answered, looking Imogen's arms over for any purple bruises.

Amarinda cracked her knuckles, "I could go back in and find Roden if you really wanted me too."

"Roden can handle himself, besides, this will take his mind off of the fact that we mercilessly teased him after he tried to, ah, flirt with Merry," muttered Tobias as he wiped his forehead. "I do hope he's alright, though. He does tend to think very little for his own safety."

"It's both noble and a little dangerous."

"Maybe we should go in after-"

Tobias never got to finish his sentence, as a second man came careening out of the tavern's other unbroken window.

It was hard to tell, at first, but Jaron soon realized that in the middle of the fist fight was a blue and gold tunic.

Sure enough, Roden was holding his own.

And also the one responsible for throwing men out of the window.

"Do we-?" Jaron looked to each of his companions, knowing that they understood what he was asking.

For several moments, nobody spoke. Nobody knew what to say. Tobias coughed, "I think we should just leave him be. You know how much he likes throwing a strong punch after drinking something with enough alcohol to kill a bear."

"I think it's time that we interfered with our friend's habit," Imogen pointed out, her hands on her hips. "It's just not safe."

"He looks like he's-," Jaron moved to the left as a third man came shooting out of another window, "He looks like he's having the time of his life."

The fight ended up lasting a half hour, which wasn't nearly as bad as Jaron was expecting, considering how full the bar had been.

It ended when Jolly, Merry, and Roden all came stumbling out of the Dragon's Keep.

Or really they were swept out by an angry bartender, telling them to come back when the Devils' lair froze over.

Jaron snickered to himself, knowing that Roden was responsible for a large portion of the money the tavern earned. He'd be welcome back in the Dragon's Keep soon enough.

He was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, but the smile on his face meant that whatever emotional turmoil Roden was grappling with had faded. Next to him, Merry's face rivaled the gruesome scowls of cathedral gargoyles.

And then there was Jolly.

Who was just behaving like himself, as always.

"Everything okay?" Jaron asked, arching his eyebrow as he stared at all the members of the trio.

"I'm perfectly fine," answered Roden, seemingly unaware that the cut on his cheek was now bleeding onto the collar of his tunic. He slipped his arm around Merry's shoulder, who instantly weaseled away. "I've actually never been better, do you think we could stay out? I'm really enjoying my-"

"Follow my finger," Tobias said as he dragged his pointer finger in a line. When Roden moved his whole head to follow Tobias's finger, he frowned, "No, with just your eyes, Roden. Your eyes! Not your whole head!"

"I am using my eyes!" Roden insisted as he continued to move his head to see Tobias' finger.

Ah, Jaron recognized that type of injury. It was one you couldn't see.

Roden once again tried to put an arm around Merry's shoulder, and once again, she slipped away, this time taking her place on Jolly's right side.

"I, er, I, uh, I think we need to get you back to the castle, my friend," Jaron set a hand on Roden's shoulder, subtly taking him away from Jolly and Merry. "How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy, but also, ah," Roden looked at Merry, who was grinning at him. . . Until she realized Jaron was looking at her, and then she looked away. That only made Roden smile more, "I feel   
dizzy, but also as if I were, um, I can't describe it, I'm sorry. I feel very good for the first time in a- whoa, the ground's tipping."

"His brain's been a little rattled," Tobias explained.

"That doesn't take much, considering that he hasn't got much of a brain up in that fat head of his," Jolly teased, though he did seem genuinely concerned about Roden's well being.

The morning after the bar fight, Tobias did his best to ask Roden about what he remembered about the night before. . .

And to everyone’s relief, he didn’t remember anything.

It was better that way.


	5. The Vaults I

It was late. It was raining.

Two ingredients for a delightfully uneventful evening.

Roden hung his cloak on the wooden pegs by the Dragon's Keep's front door. He did his best to shake the water from his hair without getting water everywhere.

For some reason, the empty tavern made his skin crawl with anxiety.

Usually it was teeming with people making poor choices.

"Hello Dawn!" Roden said with a grin as he took a seat at the wooden countertop.

Dawn, a large woman who served in the Avenian War and the owner of the Dragon's Keep, waved, "Captain! Can't imagine why you're awake at this ungodly hour. Is there anything, or anyone, you want from here?"

Her teasing chuckle made Roden wonder what she was talking about.

Did it have to do with that night he'd drank too much and supposedly threw a man out of a window?

"I'd love a cheese bun, maybe something warm," he plastered a grin on his face. "Long night ahead, it's my turn to patrol the Vaults."

"Ah, the Vaults, I'll be sure to get you anything you need."

"Is, ah, is Merry here?"

A tiny glimmer of hope seeped through Roden's cold hands. It would be nice to see a friend before marching through the Vaults.

Marching directly into Drylliad's most crime ridden sector.

"She went to bed several hours ago, love," Dawn turned to the large wall of kegs. "But I'll tell her you asked-"

"No, no, please don't. It's alright, I, ah, I just wanted to talk to somebody before. . . Y'know. . ."

"Before heading to the Vaults?"

"Yes." It wasn't in Roden to admit that the Vaults made him nervous.

He'd seen frightening things before. He'd fought with seemingly endless waves of soldiers. Held his own against notorious pirates.

But it was easy to block out those people and fulfill a task.

It was another thing to look true evil in the face.

To look true evil in the face and sometimes fail at saving everyone he could.

The Vaults were originally built by one of Carthya's queens in an attempt to give more room to businesses and places to live. Originally, the Vaults were simply called the Queen's Close, and   
were made up of several tight alleyways, rooms, and labyrinthine passages.

And they were all underground.

It didn't take very long for the Vaults to fill with the plague, and they were closed to public use.

Despite the danger and sickness, people continued to seek shelter there if they couldn't live anywhere else.

Many people didn't let the threat of death stop them from seeking shelter from a storm.

Roden knew that there'd be more people than usual hiding in the Vaults.

He only hoped that the cold kept criminals hidden in the shadows.

"You'll be alright, Captain, I have full faith in you," Dawn said, setting a steaming hot mug in front of him. She rummaged below the wooden counter, "And there's something I need to give to you."

"Dawn, you shouldn't have," Roden cracked a smile as he sipped at his drink.

Oh! Cider!

Dawn held up a coin attached to a leather string, "This is for you, from a friend. This friend claims it'll keep you safe, though I'm not sure from what. It's kind of small."

"Which friend?"

"You'll have to find out for yourself. Take your cheese bun, love, and the coin. Be safe tonight.”

Roden cracked a grin, and reached for Dawn’s hand over the counter. He pressed a kiss to her calloused fingers, “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“Come back any time,” Dawn chuckled. “And don’t get into trouble!”

Her words rang in his head as he stepped out into the rain, cloak on his shoulders and the coin tied to his belt.

Don’t get into trouble!

Roden didn’t actively seek trouble-

Actually, yes, he did actively seek out trouble. He sought out trouble and he liked to punch it in the face.

Although sometimes trouble punched him right back. 

Roden patted his mare's neck as they quietly left the warm, safe light pouring out of the Dragon's Keep. The rain that had been lightly drizzling before was now falling much harder. Heavy rain meant a heavy population of people in the Vaults.

Maybe he should've forced somebody to come patrol with him.

No, he didn't have the heart to drag his fellow soldiers from a good night's rest. Besides, he'd taken care of the Vaults on his own before, he was strong enough to do it again.

There wasn't a single person in sight on the streets of Drylliad. 

Everybody was either tucked into a warm sleeping space or hiding out of the rain. 

It didn't take long before Roden's cloak was completely soaked.

Saints, he hated cloaks. They only ever got in the way. 

Several entrances to the Vaults could be found in lower Drylliad, the entrypoints near the castle were sealed up several generations ago. And good thing too, as it wasn't uncommon for the plague to claim victims deep within the undergound labyrinth. . .

Once the streets had been cleared, Roden knew it was time to venture into the Vaults. He tied up his mare within the safety of an inn's stable, rubbed the new coin hanging near his sword, and sludged through the rain.

The first time he'd been in the Vaults was something he'd never forget.

People covered in sores were reaching to him and the six other guards. Children were huddled in corners, having frozen to death in the night. Scalps hung drying from wooden rafters. 

As much as the Carthyan guard tried, people always made their way into the Vaults.

They had no place to go. 

Hand on his short longsword, Roden squared his shoulders. The rain was falling in heavy blankets now. It almost hid the narrow, pitch black alleyway leading down into the Vaults. The Saints only knew what was awaiting him down there this time around.

He'd brought a lamp with him, tucked under his arm to keep out of the rain. Thank goodness for that. 

Stepping into the alleyway, Roden kept his eyes glued to the dark, just in case anybody was thinking about jumping out at him. He lit a match, and dropped it into the lantern's glass shell.

Dull yellow light illuminated the dark alley. Roden held it high above his head, careful to keep it out of harm's way. He scanned the alley as his eyes adjusted to the sudden surge of lantern light. 

Nobody was lurking in that front alley.

And who could blame them? Water was practically streaming across the floor. You'd catch your death long before any thieves got around to stealing your scalp right off of your head.

Pushing onwards, Roden set his hand on his sword hilt, taking in every detail that he could. 

This entrance was completely cleared.

Another pitch black entrance waited to be patrolled. Roden knew this area well, there were stairs leading into a large room. There was a second entrance there, a large arching tunnel that led out to the lowest portion of Drylliad. Adjacent to this open tunnel was a series of stairs going in different directions.

Sometimes it seemed like those stairs were leading straight down to the hellish Devils' lair.

But Roden knew better. He'd seen the Vaults with both lantern light and spotted daylight pouring in through holes in the ceiling.

He'd faced off with the demons lurking in the Vaults before.

Though it would be a lie to say he wasn't a little nervous.

No matter how hard he tried to be quiet, the sounds of his footsteps echoed through the large room. 

And he saw his first person. 

"You there," Roden kept his voice even, yet stern. It was something he picked up from Mott. "State your business!"

The person, who'd been disguised as a lump thanks to a massive black cloak, said nothing. 

As a precaution, Roden pulled his blade free. He took a step forwards, and repeated his demand.

And still, the lump of a person said nothing.

Dread began to pool in Roden's stomach. He wasn't sure what he'd do if the person was suffering from the plague, only wanting to die away from the eyes of strangers, or if the lumpy mass was a terrified child. 

"State. Your. Business."

"Rot. In. Hell!" Roared the figured, bursting into life.

Instantly, Roden recognized his attacker.

True, it had been a few weeks since their first encounter, but Roden couldn't forget the snarling voice that belonged to a short bandit hellbent on attacking Lord Feall, a friend to Carthya's royal court.

Swinging the lamp to safety, Roden held his sword out, prepared to meet the Faola's blade. This one fought with a saber, or at least that's what he remembered. But this time, the Faola was fighting with a short longsword, just like Roden.

This type of fight was easy.

Roden lunged to attack, fully prepared for when the Faola caught and parried his blow. 

He was stronger than the Faola attacking him. All he had to do was push hard enough and-

The Faola fighting him dropped the sword, and ducked to avoid the rebound from Roden's blade. 

From darkness, a second Faola had appeared, wielding another short longsword and a dagger.

Roden took several steps back, sizing up this second opponent, but no attack came.

The second Faola kicked the first one's rump, and gestured first to the third stairway, and then to Roden, sweeping their hands around their middle. 

"Attacking-," Roden began, but the second Faola looked him dead in the face, and spoke.

"It was a misunderstanding," the second Faola said, their voice rough and deep.

"No, it wasn't," insisted Roden, his blade held out. He didn't trust either of them.

The Faola whispered between themselves for several seconds. 

Their argument seemed to be coming to an end once the first Faola stood up, and held their fists up, preparing to attack Roden. The second Faola held up his sword.

Great. 

Inhaling deeply, Roden sank into a fighting stance, ready to launch himself at the two bandits. 

A plan flashed before his eyes. He'd get rid of the unarmed one first by delivering a swift blow to the head with the butt of his sword, that way, he could attack the second armed Faola without any distract-

With a mighty grunt, the second Faola shoved the first towards Roden, sprinting down the third stairwell just as the unarmed Faola tumbled to the ground near Roden's feet. 

He, ah, he wasn't expecting that. 

As quickly as he could, Roden held the point to the Faola's face, "Take off the hood and mask."

"Please, don't make me do this," the Faola begged, clasping their hands behind their head. "You wouldn't-"

"Take off the mask," ordered Roden.

"Please! My reputation-!"

"You should've thought of your reputation before you turned to a life of banditry."

The Faola scoffed, "Banditry. Your friend, the ambassador's husband, the regent. He knows what we do, you fool."

Never a good idea to call somebody a fool if they have a sword pointed directly at your throat. 

"Take off the mask, or I'll be peeling it off of my sword in a few seconds," he said. "One."

"Captain Harlowe! What we do isn't a bad-!"

"Two."

"We only take from-! Devils have you!" The Faola cried, throwing off his hood. 

A shock of long, scarlet hair tumbled down the Faola's back. When the mask came off, Roden was only slightly surprised to see a pretty pair of earth green eyes and a slim nose.

The Faola he'd nearly slaughtered those weeks ago was, in fact, a young woman. 

Her voice still carried the rasp from before, "You're not going to kill me, are you?"

Roden would've chuckled if he wasn't standing in the Vaults. He kept his sword in hand, "You're playing a dangerous game."

"And you've got your hands full."

"I can still run you through."

That shut the Faola up.

"What's your name?" Roden asked. He was weighing his options in his mind. Tobias's claims about the Faola depicted them as citizens acting outside of the law to help others. . . But Roden knew enough about gangs of bandits.

Everybody was acting for their own interest.

He suspected that the Faola were simply gaining popularity with the public so they'd get away with larger crimes all due to the fact that they would be loved by the working man.

"Ayvar," said the red haired girl, her voice not at all matching her face. "Please sir, please let me go."

"Get up," Roden growled, his sword trained on Ayvar's throat. "Hands behind your back."

It was odd, the fact that Ayvar was doing what she was told. She crossed her wrists, and held her head up high. Roden sheathed his sword. Typically, when facing off with somebody in the Vaults, there weren't any moral questions. He'd disarm the criminals, leave them unconscious, and tie their hands together until reinforcements could come to arrest them. 

There were three soldiers stationed at the city walls, all Roden needed to do was march Ayvar out of the tunnel, wave his lantern, and she'd be handled.

A thought crossed his mind. 

The price for banditry and murder was high.

No rock solid evidence existed that proved Ayvar's guilt or innocence. 

"Tell me what your business was here," Roden ordered. "And be honest. It'll save both of us a lot of hardship."

The sound of dripping water filled the large room. Ayvar was refusing to speak. 

Or maybe she was trying to think of a lie. 

"Have you thought of an elaborate, misguiding-," began Roden. 

There was courage in Ayvar's deep voice, "I only come because one of my own asked me to."

"That's not a good enough reason. Ayvar, in the name of the king, you are placed under arrest."

She didn't put up a fight as Roden took her by the arm, walked out to the tunnel, and waved the lantern over his head.

He bound her hands together, and left her sitting in the dark tunnel.

There was still work to be done in the lower Vaults.

There was still another Faola running rampant in the dark.

Casting one last glance at Ayvar, Roden descended down the third stairwell, hoping he'd see the second Faola.

Each of the three stairways down had recognizable features. Two of them were harmless, they consisted of thriving mushrooms or green mold.

That wasn't the case for this third pathway down.

Dark, asymmetrical streaks decorated the right wall of the stairway. Matching splatters lined the left. Crackling stains were spread across the floor.

This tunnel had a special name: The Murdering Path. 

Death was always waiting at the end of this stairway in one form or another.

Sometimes it was a bloodbath. 

Sometimes it was a group of diseased corpses.

And sometimes it was a little girl reaching for her dropped doll as she waited for her parents to come save her.

The last image remained on Roden's mind more than he wanted to admit. It haunted his dreams. Reminded him that no matter how hard he tried, there were always people who slipped through the cracks and went unseen until death came for them.

The little girl and her dropped doll kept him trying to look for those who often went underfoot.

Roden steeled himself against what he couldn't see at the base of the Murdering Path. He pressed his back to the wall, drew his sword, and stepped into the second room.

Lantern light swathed the dark area, catching on fallen tables and lost toys. He stepped further into the room, searching for any more people disguised as uninteresting lumps of fabric. Light reflected back at him.

A tiny pool of blood. 

Trouble was brewing. 

He stood frozen in a defensive stance, listening for any sounds that went against the drumming of the rain and the constant drip of ruined water.

Shuffling.

Timid shuffling.

Roden tiptoed around the edges of the room, trying to locate where the sound came from. There were several more stairways leading deeper still, as well as several other hallways opening up into other rooms. 

It took two more turns around the room before he was able to locate the sound of the shuffling, which actually turned out to be sniffling. 

Experience taught him to recognize the cloak. 

The black fabric barely held together by a few strings and a handful of dark patches belonged to the second Faola. 

If the second Faola was hoping to surprise him, he'd be in for a surprise. 

There was a slight hissing as a drop of rain splattered onto the lantern's glass casing. The patchwork lump stopped sniffling. Roden gingerly stepped towards it. A tiny sneeze rocked the lump, followed by the tiny sound of tiny hands hitting a tiny face.

"State your business," Roden lowered his sword only slightly, skeptical of a surprise attack. "This is Captain Harlowe, you will not be harmed if you comply."

A set of child fingers peeked out from the top of the patchwork cloak. There was a series of hissing, whispering, and more smacking. 

"State your business," he repeated.

No sound came from the cloak.

Somebody coughed behind him.

The second Faola stood with a dagger extended, his cloak missing.

“You used the same trick twice to trap me,” Roden noted, setting the lantern on the ground a few inches from the discarded cloak

The Faola grunted, a discordant sound, “I did no such thing. My colleague was on the lookout for me. She mistook you for somebody else.”

“You were going to stab me in the back.”

“Quite the opposite, actually, I was going to have you stab somebody else-”

“I doubt that.”

“- in the back while that monstrosity was tucked away.” The second Faola gestured to the cloaked lump, lowered his dagger, and held up his hand in surrender. “I told them not to move until you or me came back.”

Roden would have to berate himself for trusting the wrong people later if the Faola left him for dead. He tilted his head to the lump, “What’s hiding under there?”

“A trio of demonic children, we were going to smuggle them out,” the Faola shrugged. “I have nothing to hide, Captain. Keep your heads down, runts”

A tiny child’s hand was barely visible below the hem of the Faola’s cloak. It vanished the second the Faola snapped his order.

“Why?”

It was a simple question.

The Faola shrugged, “Because I like to eat children for breakfast.”

“You’re making jokes in an area known for atrocities similar to what you just described,” Roden pointed out.

“Then I suppose I’ll start making jokes about my dietary habits any day now. Think they’ll- I’m joking, I swear it. You have two choices now. Kill me and get those kids to safety, but let the scum who brought them here roam the Vaults-”

“Or take the children to safety and leave you to remain with villains you probably get along with.”

“I was going to suggest that you help me catch them, actually,” the Faola pressed his hands to his chest. “My heart would break if I had one.”

Once again, Roden was looking at the cloak, it was much easier to make out the tiny shapes of three children trying their best to stay still. He stared at the Faola, once again weighing his options.

Well, actions did speak louder than words.

“We can’t just leave them here,” Roden gestured to the hidden trio. “What if they’re stolen away?”

“Then we’ll-,” the Faola obviously hadn’t thought of that. He balled his hands into fists, “They’ll be fine.”

“What if-”

“We can’t afford to think in what ifs, people like you and I, sir knight.”  
“You can’t gamble with an innocent’s life.”

“Then stay here. Listen for screaming, probably curses too, everyone hates me here,” the Faola said as he stepped forward. He patted Roden’s cheek, rubbed his eyes, and slipped back into the shadows. 

Unfortunately, the encounter wasn’t the strangest one he’d had with a criminal.

Roden shrugged out of his thick cloak, and settled it on top of the now squirming children, “It’s alright, you don’t need to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” sniffled one of the children, fiercely pulling aside both cloaks. “I want to go home!”

“Where is your home?” Roden asked, kneeling beside the trio. 

Two girls, one boy. 

“I don’t- I, ah, it’s by the pigs,” said the first child as she pushed her dirty pale curls from her eyes. 

“I don’t have a home,” said the second girl, throwing her arms around Roden. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.”

“I would very much like to have. . .”

Roden did his best to nod his head at the right times as the second little girl struggled to find the word she wanted. If he balanced the three children, he’d be able to take them back up Murder Path and into safety. 

They’d be held at the gatehouse for a week to see if any parents came for them. After that, Imogen would assist in helping them find a place to live. 

The Faola’s words creeped across his neck.

Let the scum who brought them here roam free. . .

“Tell me your names,” Roden interrupted the second girl, who still hadn’t figured out what she wanted to say.

The tiny girl with white curls poked out her chin, “I’m Brat!”

“My name- my name is Roach,” said the second girl, a smile spreading across her face. “Will you get me a -”

“They call me Beetle,” murmured the little boy.

Roden did his best to remain quiet and patient as he used his cloak as a makeshift pack to carry Brat on his back. 

With Beetle on his right hip, and Roach on his left with the lantern in her hand, Roden crept back up Murder Path.

Anxiety trickled through his bones. 

Every drip could’ve masked a footstep.

Halfway up Murder Path, Brat sneezed into Roden’s ear. 

He froze. 

When the coast was clear, he resumed the nerve wracking trek up to that main room. 

The Devils must’ve been in a good mood- the large room was empty. Roden stepped out of the dark tunnel, or at least as far as he could while still avoiding the rain. His heart pounded against his ribs as Roach proudly waved the lantern.

Any second now. . .

Any second now, and those three sentinels would be there to take the trio to safety.

Faint shouts and curses snaked their way up the Murder Path. The Faola must’ve found trouble. 

Hurry up!

Brat had to have heard the fighting. She buried her snotty face into Roden’s neck, humming as loud and as tuneless as she could. 

It was wrong to leave the Faola to fight a large group of thugs.

But Roden refused to leave the trio of children waiting all alone for help.

By the time the three guards arrived and had taken a child in their arms, Roden was certain it was too late. Roach insisted on pressing sloppy kisses all over his face, while Brat blew her nose into his tunic one last time. 

He hardly had time to answer any questions the guards had before he was bolting down Murder Path, the lantern swinging all over the place.

What was he thinking? Dashing after a masked bandit?

Roden couldn’t argue for or against assisting the Faola as he tried his best to avoid dark puddles that looked a little too much like hardening blood. The sounds from before were growing quieter and quieter. 

The odds were stacked too high against the Faola.

They were both idiots. The Faola by walking off into the Vaults alone, and Roden for following. 

Turn after turn, room after room, Roden searched for any sign of a skirmish. Any evidence that there had been a fight in the first place.

His lantern was beginning to flicker.

Saints, what was he going to do without it?

Wait-

What was he going to do without it?

A million reasons why he should turn around and walk away raced through his head. Roden quietly ignored them all as he backtracked out of the room he was in, and set the lantern out in the covered hall. It wouldn’t be long before the lantern flickered.

He held up his fists. Drawing a sword in the dark would only spell trouble, but he still wanted to be ready to throw blows if somebody decided to surprise him the second the lantern’s flame went out. 

Soon, Roden was in total darkness. 

Irrational fear seeped through his iron will.

He could die down here, all alone. And what if he did? Nobody would find him, except for the hungry rats and hungry pe-

No. The Faola was right.

People like the two of them couldn’t think about what ifs.

Roden held perfectly still as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the Vaults. 

He’d wrongly assumed that there wasn’t any light down there.

Faint streaks of yellow light tried their best to penetrate the room, and several streaks managed to do so. 

Using these faint patches of light, Roden inched his way into the darkness, listening for any sound of another human being.

There was a pattern to walking deeper into the Vaults. 

First, Roden did his best to see if there were any puddles, as those were asking for noise. He then inched his way forward, brushing his foot side to side as he did so. The simple, two-step pattern continued for what seemed like ages.

One day, he’d have to ask Jaron how to get through a room completely undetected.

The streaks of light were growing more and more frequent. Roden swore they were leading to a room with at least a little bit of-

Light.


	6. Lady Renlyn Karise has Lost Her Right Shoe!

"I can’t thank you enough for helping me with the selection,” Imogen said as she walked arm-in-arm with Amarinda, and she knew that Amarinda’s hopes were as high as her own. “It just became so hard to choose.”

“I’m just glad you trusted my judgement,” Amarinda’s dimpled smile shone despite the dark, cloudy evening.

There was something else on Imogen's mind: the fear that maybe, just maybe   
Amarinda's judgement was wrong this time.

Two months ago, Amarinda was called away to spend time with her cousin, Crown Princess Eline of Bymar, at a quiet party for friends and family. Tobias went with her, of course, as well as a splendid entourage. They weren't away for too long, perhaps a few weeks, but it was a lonely time for Imogen.

She prided herself on being a good listener. Imogen's attendants loved telling her the latest gossip, but were far too afraid to have a meaningful conversation late into the night.

Though Jaron was her confidant, husband, and best friend, there were some things he, ah, had a different perspective on.

It was difficult without Amarinda's company.

Imogen did her best to remain positive despite growing lonely. She wasn't the loudest queen there had ever been, and she didn't feel comfortable asking for favors.

But Jaron soon caught on to how much Imogen missed Amarinda, and how much Imogen simply couldn't connect with her attendants.

As gently as he could, Jaron suggested finding a new lady-in-waiting to keep Imogen   
company, as Amarinda's duties as ambassador to Bymar would soon require her to make frequent trips to all five Bymarian kingdom states in preparation for Princess   
Eline's official coronation. He created a list of women he thought would get along with Imogen, and she did the same.

Ultimately, the choice became too difficult.

Each woman would make an excellent companion. However, Imogen realized another very important factor.

She needed a lady-in-waiting who'd get along with Amarinda too.

In the end, Imogen asked Amarinda to make the final choice, and not to tell her who it was until the day she arrived.

And that day had finally come.

"Oh, I do hope she gets here before it rains," said Amarinda as she gestured to the darkening sky. "We haven't had any really frightening storms in a long time, I think today's the day we get a taste of the storming season."

"Do you think that she'd like the rain?" Imogen asked, suddenly realizing how very nervous she was to meet her new lady-in-waiting.

"Absolutely. You two will probably get along very well, I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"It's silly, being this nervous."

"I don't think it's silly at all! You're meeting a brand new person who hasn't been to court in several months and has quite the reputation for her staring, but don't let that intimidate you. You're the queen. People love you."

It was still difficult adjusting to being the highest lady in the land.

After all, nearly five years ago, Imogen was a servant pretending she couldn't speak to avoid her master's eye.

Shifting from being one of the most disliked people in the kitchen to the most admired woman in the kingdom wasn't exactly easy. There were eyes on her almost every moment of every day. Ears listening for her voice and anything they could use against her. Mouths telling flowering lies, spilling with compliments that didn't seem genuine, and biting back harsh comments.

There was always the chance that her new companion would find her too quiet, too dull, and not all that exciting.

After all, that's what some duchesses believed.

"Can I know her name yet?" Imogen was wringing her hands, her eyes glued to the stairs as she and Amarinda glided their way into the great hall.

Amarinda's eyebrows shot up to her hairline, looking dreadfully smug. "Absolutely not, otherwise you'll ruin the surprise. I've given you hints, list them off."

Imogen began thinking of each reason in her head.

"Out loud, Imogen," laughed Amarinda.

"Reputation for staring, her name's on the list Jaron made, she hasn't been here for several months."

"Also that she's very blonde, that's an important one. Any guesses?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"I swear I won't laugh."

The great hall wasn't nearly as full as it usually was, much to Imogen's relief. Jaron was out on a hunting expedition with Mott, and Tobias had been called away to tend to an ailing old woman. However, there was one brightly dressed troubadour lounging on a chair, strumming a lute while several ladies and lords listened to his ballad.

Oh, Jolly, he always had to have a crowd with him.

It was quite funny, really. Crowds turned him into quite the adventurer. Imogen enjoyed having him around, he'd added several new songs to his repertoire.

Though some of them were a little too sad for Imogen's taste.

"Is it Lady Ayvar- no, she's got ginger hair, sorry about that one," Imogen waved her hand as if trying to shoo away her mistake. "Um, Lady Isla, from Eberstein."

Amarinda smiled, "No, but you're quite close. Guess again."

"Lady Vanesse from the lowlands?"

"Not her, either, and she's not nearly as close of a guess as Lady Isla."

"Lady Helene?"

"Almost, but not quite," Amarinda was still grinning. She thanked the pages who opened the massive oak door leading out to the castle courtyard. "Want to guess again?"

"Not really, I, ah, don't really know who else to name," Imogen confessed.

"Good, it'll make the surprise even more shocking."

The courtyard was filled with people rushing to finish their duties before the storm hit.   
Women dashed left and right with their arms full of laundry. Page boys were leading a group of large Bymarian war horses towards the stables. Lord Feall and several soldiers were sorting through a band of thieves.

Imogen swore she recognized one of them.

She narrowed her eyes, and leaned forward in an attempt to see more details.

"One of them looks familiar," Imogen muttered.

"Everyone looks familiar from a distance," said Amarinda. She shrugged her shoulders,   
"Roden and Lord Feall have been working really hard to capture some members of the Faola. Feall has told me he suspects that one of them is the notorious Mireldis Thay."

"I've heard that name before."

Amarinda took a deep breath, which meant that she was going to try her best to explain the situation as fast as possible. "Queen Danika sent several investigators to try to find her, but they were expected to arrive several days ago. Jaron sent out several soldiers to find them, but if what Roden said was true about Danika's representatives trying to find evidence against House Thay, I hope they never come."

"Why not?" asked Imogen, trying her best not to sound too eager about learning more from Amarinda.

There was a pause before more words came.

"I knew Mireldis Thay when we were children. We got along, and she was very important to Princess Eline. I don't know everything that happened, as I only learned of   
House Thay's strife several months after Tobias and I were married. And I- and I'd rather keep my memories of Mireldis as they were. I want to remember her as my friend, not my enemy."

Words would only make the situation more painful than it needed to be.

Rather than say anything more, Imogen wrapped her arm around Amarinda's waist, giving her a side embrace for a moment.

Her desire to preserve the memory of her friend was something Imogen would do her best to respect.

She wondered why Feall was so convinced that Lady Thay was one of the Faola.

Why he was so concerned with catching her.

She didn't have it within herself to ask Amarinda her thoughts and shatter the peaceful quiet. Imogen knew that she'd receive answers in due time, all that was needed was a little bit of patience.

"I arranged for a larger greeting party," Amarinda said after several moments of silence.   
"They're all waiting for my word, I'm just waiting until we get word that our new guest is   
in the city, I don't want everyone waiting for too long."

The fear Imogen had felt before was slowly warming up to excitement. "When do you suspect she'll be here?"

"Possibly half of an hour, maybe more than two hours," she was trying her best to be nonchalant, Imogen knew that much.

A fat raindrop hit the cobblestone step below the pair.

"Maybe even more if it begins to rain."

Imogen cracked a smile, "It'll be alright."

"Now you're telling me not to be nervous, wasn't I just telling you the same thing a little while ago?"

Amarinda's laugh was contagious, and Imogen caught herself giggling along as well.

Another rain drop hit the ground.

The courtyard, which had been bustling with laundresses not long before, was devoid of all drying sheets and doublets. No page boys and the massive horses they were leading could be seen.

Only Feall, the soldiers, and the thieves, which Imogen was certain were Faola gang members, remained outside.

Imogen watched silently as Feall separated several of the Faola from the others, and gestured to the underground dungeon. The Faola that hadn't been pointed towards the dungeon were let go.

They practically ran from the soldiers as their brothers in arms were taken away.

Feall stood back, watching as his men and the captured Faola marched out of the courtyard. Once they were out of sight, he sent the remaining soldiers to their posts, and approached Amarinda and Imogen.

"Good evening, your Highness," Feall dipped his head. "Ambassador."

"Lord Feall, it's good to see you here," Amarinda flashed a bright smile.

"Those were Faola, were they not?" asked Imogen, genuinely curious about the thieves going straight to the dungeons. She'd heard much about the Faola and their morally grey ways after they attacked Feall.

"They were indeed," confirmed Feall. "We've been, ah, sifting through the ones we capture. I'd much rather take their leaders captive and coerce them into telling us where their fellow vagabonds are instead of slaughtering each one we find. Captain Harlowe and I are trying to prove that the crown wants justice.

"The Faola we released technically didn't do anything wrong, merely stumbled onto a scene at the wrong time. The ones we arrested, however, were inciting a fight in an alleyway. While that's not a crime as hefty as murder, it's still a disturbance of the peace. They'll spend a week in the dungeon and then be released, hopefully after realizing that the guard doesn't want them dead. They are still people, after all."

"You're a good man, Feall," Imogen smiled, and clasped her hands together. "Have you considered staying here longer?"

Amarinda and Feall exchanged a glance. He cleared his throat, "It depends on if King Oberson wants to stay longer. I don't want to see trouble befall him as he returns home to Bymar."

Ah, King Oberson. The portly king of Dinwallis, one of Bymar's five states. He'd come to rub elbows with Tobias and Amarinda, but recently informed Roden that he was concerned for his safety, and wanted to remain in Carthya.

It probably didn't help that Danika was sending investigators to locate Lady Mireldis Thay.

Tobias later told Imogen that when Mireldis's name was mentioned in Oberson's presence, he went as pale as a freshly cleaned sheet.

There was a silent understanding that until Oberson was certain there was no Mireldis Thay coming to kill him for some random reason, he'd be staying in Drylliad.

Which meant Feall would stay too.

"The suspected storm is making me a little nervous," Amarinda confessed. "There was a woman coming to Drylliad tonight, I fear they were caught up in the rains."

Imogen blinked several times.

What happened?

Oh.

She'd focused on her own thoughts for too long and vanished from the conversation.

Feall noticed. "Glad to have you back, your Majesty."

"I'm so sorry," Imogen felt her cheeks grow a little pink. "Have you heard any word from our guest?"

"I have, actually," Feall was beaming, his smile so warm that it could've rivaled the sun.   
"I sent out a squadron of men, I hope the captain doesn't mind. They'll be here-"

A loud clap of thunder shook the sky and-

Several fat raindrops splashed on Imogen.

Then all at once, the heavens opened up.

Rain poured down, instantly soaking Amarinda, Imogen, and Feall. In a fit of giggles and childish shrieks, Amarinda and Imogen sloshed their way back into the castle, painfully aware that their dresses were creating ponds as they stood safe from the storm outside.

Imogen looked up at Amarinda, the kohl lining around her eyes had melted down her face. They both began to laugh as Amarinda giddily wiped around her eyes. Even Feall was chuckling. 

“Can you please send word to my friends in the great hall that our guest will be here soon?” Amarinda asked, most of her kohl successfully wiped off. 

The page boy who opened the door nodded his head, and dashed off to do as he was told. 

"Do you know our guest's name?" Imogen asked suddenly, turning her gaze to Feall.

"I do, as a matter of fact. But I have been sworn to secrecy to preserve the surprise, as Lady Amarinda asked. Would you like me to find one of your attendants so you both can change out of your wet clothing?"

Amarinda seemed to consider his offer, "Scared we'll catch our deaths, Feall?"

"Yes, yes I am."

"You said you heard from our guests," Amarinda crossed her arms, likely to keep out the   
cold.

"Do you know when she'll be here?" Imogen asked excitedly, her nervousness had faded the second she realized how close she was to meeting her new lady-in-waiting.

She couldn't deny how ready she was to meet this new guest, couldn't deny that she was definitely anxious to see how the situation would pan out.

Feall ran his hand over his bearded chin, "Very soon."

"But how soon?"

"You're beginning to sound like your husband, your Majesty."

A new wave of giggles overtook Imogen. The thought of her becoming more like Jaron was something she and the rest of the castle feared.

It was bad enough having one Jaron.

But at least one Jaron had a worrying Tobias to keep him in check.

Two Jarons would likely mean the castle's destruction.

Several courtiers began shifting into the large front room, their eyes wide once they saw both Imogen and Amarinda soaked to the bone. None of them said anything.

Except for Jolly, who'd pushed himself to the front.

He pointed at Feall’s soaking tunic, "That's unprofessional, sir."

"So is pointing," Amarinda stuck out her tongue.

"It's good to see you again, Ambassador."

"Are you still frequenting Queen Danika's court?"

"Absolutely I am!" Jolly strummed his lute. "She adores my company."

"I like his company too, he's got numerous songs I absolutely adore," Imogen held her hands up in mocking surrender. She knew that Amarinda wasn't Jolly's biggest fan.

"Thank you, your Majesty, I think I'll write one about-"

"There will be no ballad writing about anybody in this room!" Amarinda insisted, trying to   
wring out her braid as she did so. "Plese, Saints, please no ballads."

"Your loss, Ambassador. Besides, I already have one written about sir Feall, it's quite catchy."

Feall arched an eyebrow, "Is it now?"

Imogen took Amarinda by the elbow, and led her away from Jolly and the potential argument.

They’d change from their wet clothes, and hopefully Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting wouldn’t arrive while they were away.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The minutes were ticking by, slowly turning into an hour.

Imogen and Amarinda did their best to sit with the courtiers. Amarinda looked at the large clock imported from Mendenwal seemingly every minute, which only made time slower. 

When the clock hit the top of the hour, four of the courtiers excused themselves.

The clock continued ticking.

And then two hours passed. The courtiers and welcoming party vanished, Jolly began to strum a tune about an outlawed princess from the north. 

Four hours.

Six hours.

Six hours had passed since the storm hit, and there was no sign of Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting or the squadron of guards Feall had sent to meet them.  
“Jolly, can you play us another song?” Imogen asked quietly, rubbing her eyes in a futile attempt at staying awake.

The troubadour yawned, nodded, and strummed his lute, “Is there anything specific you’d like?”

“Something happy.”

“I’ll play The Girl Who Ate Everything because I know that-,” Jolly shot a look at Amarinda, “-somebody hates it.”

“It’s not very kind of you to make that assumption,” Amarinda checked her nails.

Imogen knew she was doing her best to be polite.

Amarinda only ever checked her nails to avoid rolling her eyes and appearing rude. 

Jolly inhaled, exhaled, and played the opening chords for the song. He opened his mouth, preparing to sing the first note-

Suddenly, a pounding knock shattered the peaceful air. Jolly jumped, striking a discordant note, which only made Amarinda laugh.

A page burst in through the door. He inhaled deeply, eyes bulging out of his face, bowed, and used his loudest voice for his declaration:

"The Lady Renlyn Karise is missing her right boot!"

Amarinda snorted.

Missing- missing her right boot. 

What a way to make an appearance. 

Instantly, Imogen thought of a million possibilities of the person her new lady-in-waiting could be. Adventurous, wild, somebody loud and talkative. The type of person that would exhaust Imogen in a matter of minutes.

Dear Saints, she was becoming nervous again.

“Renlyn Karise is here!” Jolly raised his lute in triumph. “Saints, love that woman. She’s charming, absolutely charming!”

"Renlyn Karise?" Imogen made a face, she'd never heard of that name before.

She wasn't even sure if it was on the list of women recommended for the position.

"Come on! Come on, let's go outside and see her," Amarinda said, taking Imogen by the elbow and leading her through the large doors before she could protest.

“I suppose I’ll stay here then!” shouted Jolly.

Imogen held a hand over her head as she and Amarinda took the steps two at a time. 

Excitement threatened to knock her back.

The rain was still beating against the stone courtyard, but not with the fury as it had before.   
A large white carriage was waiting in the middle of Carthyan soldiers, a tall young woman was talking to one of them.

"Lady Renlyn!" Amarinda cried, waving her hand above her head.

Renlyn Karise was as tall as some of the soldiers guarding her carriage. Her hair, though dripping wet, was the same shade of wheat fields waiting for harvest. She dropped into a deep curtsy as soon as Amarinda and Imogen were finally within conversation distance.

She seemed like a nice person.

"I'm very excited to have you in my household," Imogen said, putting her best smile on her face.

"Not as excited as I am," was Renlyn's reply, and yet, her face was locked in a bored expression.

"Lady Karise, you're soaking wet!" Amarinda noted, gesturing to Renlyn's clothing. "And where has your boot gone!?"

"I hate carriages."

"And shoes too?"

"Yes, or I would've been wearing both."

Amarinda chuckled, though Imogen couldn't deny that she was a little confused. It wasn't until a smirk tugged at Renlyn's mouth that she realized Renlyn wasn't being serious.

It seemed that Lady Renlyn Karise's humor would be dry enough to combat the storm. She was collected and quiet.

They’d all get along very well.

"There are three children waiting in the carriage," Renlyn gestured behind her.

Amarinda didn’t hide her surprise."And where did you pick those up?"

"Just outside the Vaults, they were in the custody of three guards. Lieutenant Alistair informed me that the situation will be taken care of."

"What situation?"

Renlyn avoided the question, "It will be handled. I suspect that I will not be given my boot back, unfortunately."

Something in Renlyn's dry voice made Imogen suspect that there was more to the story.

It also made Imogen suspect that she wouldn't get those story details until she and Renlyn were better friends.

"The children will be taken inside," Amarinda promised. "What are their names?"

"Brat, Beetle, and Roach."

"Are you- are you joking?" Imogen tilted her head.

"I don't joke, your Majesty."

The carriage door clicked open. Out spilled three tiny, and incredibly dirty, children. Two girls, one boy. 

A tall man, Lieutenant Alistair, held his cloak over the trio, preventing them from getting wet. Renlyn didn’t look away from the odd group as they made their way up the castle steps and into the warmth waiting inside.

Imogen tilted her head. 

She wasn’t against bringing orphans into the castle. 

She just wanted to know what brought them there.

"You must be cold," Imogen said, gesturing to Renlyn's clothes and then to the sky.   
"We're going to get sick if we don't get into something dry."

"We had a group of people here to welcome you, but I suspect that you'd like to avoid people until you're ready," Amarinda added. "I suspect that they're all distracted anyways. It's very late and we have a popular troubadour in the castle at the moment."

"Which one?" Renlyn asked.

"Jolly of Angelmarr, he's Bymarian and an idiot."

"Ah, I know him, actually. Is he still,um, the one who. . .?"

"Is the favorite of Queen Danika, my aunt? Yes, he is."

“You know Jolly?” asked Imogen, deftly steering both Renlyn and Amarinda to the castle. The rain had become a constant drizzle now.

Renlyn nodded, “I do.”

“I hope he’s slipped off somewhere else, Imogen and I were listening to him play the lute. He’s talented, I’ll give him that, but still an annoyance.”

Imogen rubbed her nose as she hid her chuckle. 

The page boy who’d announced Renlyn in her right-boot-less state was sitting on the steps. He jumped to his feet as the three women approached, and held open the door. Renlyn nodded her thanks, but kept her eyes glued straight ahead.

Drylliad castle was humble, yet magnificent. You’d be a fool to call it ugly, but a wise man to call it slightly plain.

“Jaron wanted to secure more money for fixing things rather than hanging full tapestries from every wall,” Imogen explained, suddenly self conscious about a castle.

Self conscious. 

About a castle. 

To Imogen’s surprise, Renlyn didn’t comment on the plain walls. Instead, she nodded. “I’m very much in debt to the king, he’s been assisting my search for workers.”

“You’re a businesswoman?”

She nodded. “I sell ships, and, ah, other goods.”

“How are things, by the way?” Amarinda asked, carefully lifting her skirts as the three women began to walk up the stairs to Renlyn’s apartments.

Several moments passed before Renlyn spoke. It was obvious that she was more than a little uncomfortable. “Very well. King Aranscot has commissioned several pinnaces. There is a demand for, uh, certain fabrics in Bymar and Gelyn. I take pride in the ships I’ve built, but the real money comes from what I can sell using those ships.”

“You’re quite hated among some of the trade guilds in Bymar, I applaud that.”

“I’m also a woman playing a man’s game.”

“How did you come into business?” Imogen asked, fascinated by Renlyn’s choice to do something like that. 

“My elder brother was heir to my father’s trades,” Renlyn frowned. “I was betrothed at a tender age, but my brother died, making me the eldest and therefore the one to inherit all my father owned. I was tired of being passed around like a horse, and taught myself how to run a business.

“Rather than sew myself into new dresses, I requested the bolts of silk that would’ve gone to my gowns and began to sell them. Eventually, I was trading silks and giving my father a run for his money. We chose to work together, rather than run both our companies into the ground, and became much more powerful than before. When my father died, I received it all, and now I’ve proven that I’m more than just pretty teeth.”

There was pride flaming in Renlyn’s eyes, Imogen could practically see the flames leaping out. 

Imogen cracked a smile. 

Renlyn was a hard worker, they’d get along very well. 

“We’re both very excited to have you stay with us at court,” Amarinda said as she dragged both Imogen and Renlyn to the right. “Just in time for summer, too.”

Ideas grew in the back of Imogen’s mind. The thought of running a trading empire on her own was thrilling. “Renlyn, King Oberson will be staying here for the summer, have you considered speaking with him about sending a gift to his wife?”

A rare grin slipped across Renlyn’s face as Amarinda dragged her into the small suite saved specifically for her. 

“You’ll be staying here unless Imogen requests your company at night,” Amarinda spread out her arms, showing off the lovely room. 

“It’s very, ah, colorful,” Renlyn noted as she stepped inside. “My clothes are being brought up so I can-”

“Nonsense! Imogen and I selected several gowns for you, we can’t have you catching your death before you even start your new position.”

Imogen nodded, and gestured to a single wardrobe pressed up in the corner. “There’s plenty of gowns in there, would you like us to wait outside while you change? Do you need-”

“By the Saints!” Renlyn burst, her sudden outcry causing both Imogen and Amarinda to jump. She’d nearly ran to the wardrobe, and was running her hands all over the tiny details. “Do you have any idea how beautiful this is? Look at these! The figures have faces! Faces! This alone could serve as a dowry!”

The wardrobe was indeed lavish. 

Hand carved from dark wood, the wardrobe boasted a scene depicting a beautiful woman accompanied by many lance wielding men. Several other details had been added to the side panels and drawers. 

It was odd, thinking about how a piece of furniture could serve as somebody’s dowry.

Renlyn was mumbling to herself, touching every single part of the wardrobe. A wide smile broke across her face, “I’ve been expanding my business to include multiple trades. I’ve got an army of carpenters itching for something. My, my, this is genius! Yes, yes, and then the profits could help me with the blacksmiths. . . Oh, yes.”

“This is how Tobias gets when he finds another physician’s reports,” Amarinda grinned. “It’s wonderful, seeing somebody devoted to what they love.”

“Perhaps we should give Lady Renlyn and the wardrobe some privacy,” Imogen suggested, nodding towards the door. She cleared her throat, “We’ll be right outside!”

If Renlyn heard them, she didn’t say anything, as she’d finally opened the wardrobe and was snooping inside.

As both Imogen and Amarinda left Renlyn to inspect the wardrobe, they exchanged a smile.

Lady Renlyn Karise would make a lovely lady-in-waiting indeed.


	7. The Vaults II

There were four men lounging about in their light filled room. Roden had quietly made his way to a dark corner, watching and waiting for a chance to attack the four men.

They had to be the thugs the Faola foolishly engaged. 

Roden strained to hear what they were saying at first, but his struggles were eased the second one of the men retrieved a fat jug from beneath the table.

It didn't take long for them to become visibly intoxicated.

He actually stood a chance against the four of them now that they were like this.

Knowing what he needed to do, Roden leaned forward, hand on his sword. He'd yell as loud as he could, that always intimidated the enemy. After that, he'd disarm the men, place them under arrest, and leave them to be picked up by the three other guards.

Energy was coursing through his battle-hungry hands.

Once on his feet, Roden pressed his back against the wall, watching his targets. Each one was slowly growing more and more drunk. One of them, a mountain of a man with no hair on his head, withdrew a handful of letters from his tunic.

"From Lady Lolan 'erself!" Cried the mountainous man, whose voice was shockingly high pitched.

"Let me read them then," another man said. He was much more alert than the others, Roden was almost convinced that this observant man could see him. "I want to know what I'll be getting for them kids."

"We're losing-," the mountain hiccupped. "We're losing a chunk o'the reward because of that blasted meddler."

"So catch the meddler and turn him in instead of those three snotty runts."

"Where'd we-?"

"Look for the blood, idiot! He got nicked while we fought last! You've failed as a l-"

A stone bounced somewhere deep within the Vaults, causing Roden and the thugs to all jump.

"See? I was right. He came to us," the mountain wriggled his shoulders.

No reply came from the alert man.

"See? He came-"

"Be quiet!"

"I'm the boss!"

The mountain man kept his mouth shut after that.

For several moments, the Vaults were completely silent aside from the constant drip of rain. No new sounds came.

Nothing but silence.

The mountain man turned his attention back to his friends and their jug, and eventually, the alert man sat back down too.

Roden inhaled.

He'd have to attack soon while he still had the element of surprise on his side.

Lifting his sword ever so carefully, Roden fixed his eye on his first target: The alert man. He was the only one with a clear enough head to make deadly decisions. The drunk ones might get discouraged, and even if they didn’t, they weren’t exactly in the best position to fight. 

If it weren’t for the tiniest flash of reflected light, Roden would’ve sprung his attack.

The flash was too small to have been noticed by the alert man and his men. Maybe- maybe Roden was seeing things.

Something was waving at him. 

Someone was hiding in the corner adjacent to him.

Another flash flitted across the floor of the dark room, and the man responsible for it waved despite the darkness. The Faola from before had returned, this time, with what looked like a woman’s fashionable right boot. 

Roden jerked his head towards the men, and gestured to his sword with his free hand. The Faola held up first his free hand, and then held up the boot, imitating a throwing motion at the same time. 

Despite not knowing what the Faola had planned, Roden nodded. 

He’d have to take a page out of Jaron’s book and make things up as he went.

The Faola shook his shoulders, dropped to a fighting stance, and waited. . .

A woman's right boot flew through the air, nailing the alert man square in the face. The Faola unsheathed his knife and jumped out of his hiding place, completely prepared to apprehend the alert man.

"I told you he came!" The mountainous man laughed, pointing straight at the bristling Faola.

No insults came from the alert man as he hurled himself towards the Faola, his voice rising in a furious yell. The Faola simply stepped out of the way, letting his foe tumble out into the dark tunnel.

"Don't kill him," the Faola said simply, gesturing to the fallen man. "He's all yours, Captain Harlowe."

Roden smirked, "Thank you very much."

He wasn't sure if the Faola heard his thanks, as by then, he'd hurled himself at the mountainous man. 

Without hesitating, Roden kicked the alert man in the head, effectively knocking him out. He'd deal with the scumbag later. There was no way he'd let the Faola defeat every thug in that room.

"Hand me the jug!" Roared one of the scrambling thugs. Once he got his hands on said jug, he began swinging it about himself with the accuracy of a blind man in the middle of a cave. 

The Faola brought the butt of his sword down on his opponent's head, leaving both the man and the jug to tumble to the ground. 

“He mentioned something about-!” Roden began, but he cut his sentence short as one of the men charged forward. 

“Letters! I know!” Shouted the Faola as he kicked back at the mountainous man. 

It became clear that Roden needed to prioritize his opponents. 

Facing down that mountainous man could spell failure for both he and the Faola. 

But he knew they both couldn’t fight the mountainous man while worrying about another outsider. 

Whirling around himself, Roden brought his elbow down on his attacker’s head, hoping that the action would be enough to bring him down. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Roden’s attacker stumbled, withdrew a dagger from his belt, and flung himself into their fight with renewed fury. 

Roden held his ground. 

A sickeningly crunching sound broke through the room; Roden’s attacker had accidentally impaled himself on Roden’s extended sword. 

As the man’s corpse slid to the ground, Roden rocketed toward the mountainous man, who’d managed to get his hands locked around the Faola’s throat. The Faola limply kicked around the mountainous man’s middle. In an attempt to avoid Roden’s sword, the mountainous man dropped the Faola, and nearly trampled him to get away. 

The Faola rolled to the corner and didn’t move. 

The easiest way to take down this mountainous man would be by slicing across his chest, but Roden knew that the attack would likely cut through the letters he needed and possibly spread blood across the papers. He'd have to think of something unusual.

Think, Roden! Think!

Realizing that the mountainous man was easily twice his size was not something Roden enjoyed.

Twice his size.

Jaron! Jaron fought people who were bigger than him all the time!

Oh. Oh no. 

Was he really about to ask himself 'what would Jaron do'? Was he really about to do something that usually meant doing something incredibly stupid? Something slippery and sneaky rather than up front and honest?

Roden sheathed his sword as he backed up.

Unfortunately, yes. He was going to ask himself what would Jaron do?

"I'll crush you!" Roared the mountainous man as he reached his great meaty hands out for Roden's throat.

What would Jaron do? What would Jaron do!?

Holding his ground, Roden lifted his fists up to the level of his nose, providing a makeshift shield for his neck. Every pump of his heart sent out the same message.

Why did he sheath his sword!? 

An honest sword fight was much easier!

Battling an opponent closer to your size was easier! That was something that should've been easy, Roden was a large young man. For Saints' sake, Jolly of Angelmarr had written a song about Roden's size scaring tiny thieves into turning themselves in without a fight. 

Why, oh why, did he choose to engage with this mountainous man?

Thoughts like that weren't what made him captain, they weren't what made him who he was. Roden inhaled deeply, watching as his opponent raced toward him with murder gleaming in hateful eyes. Stopping people who hurt others was what Roden did. 

It was why he so actively tried to find trouble and teach it a lesson. 

Only a few more steps and those meaty hands of a killer would be around his neck.

Three more steps.

Two steps.

One-

At the very last moment possible, Roden pivoted away, beginning an elaborate pattern of twists and turns to keep himself just out of reach.

"You shouldn't-!" The mountainous man inhaled deeply, obviously out of breath. "You shouldn't be meddling! We're not hurting-!"

No amount of reason could justify whatever the man's intentions were. 

Roden risked punching the mountainous man in the throat as hard as he could to reinforce that view. In return, the mountainous man grabbed him by the left arm, and hurled him against the wall like a broken toy.

Blood spurted from his nose.

A groan escaped Roden's lips. He'd feel that one tomorrow. 

"I didn't want to have to kill you," scowled the mountainous man. His frown only made him scarier.

"You're breaking-," Roden heaved in a sharp breath. "You're breaking the law, I have to stop you."

Despite Roden's best attempts to get to safety, the mountainous man caught up with him, delivering a sharp kick to his back in the process. 

"Let this slide, just once, captain."

"Never."

"My employer would pay you a hefty sum."

Roden swore he saw the Faola's supposedly unconscious body twitch at the sound of a large reward. 

There was no way that Roden would engage in this conversation any longer. He hoisted himself to his feet, this time with his sword in his hands, "You're under arrest, sir, I'd recommend that you come with me peacefully."

"I'm not afraid of you!"

Lunging forward, Roden brought his sword over his head in a clean arc, slashing down towards the giant's balled fists. The giant teetered away and barely managed to keep his hands out of the way. Once again, Roden advanced with the same move, sweeping his sword in the opposite direction. Though he didn't manage to cut through the mountainous man's wrists, he did manage to cut the shoulder. 

Not a smart move on Roden's part.

He realized this the second that the giant man screamed. 

He realized this the moment the giant man grabbed Roden's sword with his bare hands, yanked it out of his grip, and threw it out into the dark hallway.

Roden held up his hands, considering begging for mercy and attacking once again like what Jaron did when losing to a better skilled foe. 

The giant pointed his fat, bleeding sausage finger in Roden's face, "You're going to pay!"

"I'm not afraid of you," Roden growled, bringing his fists up as he prepared for the inevitable blows. 

"You could've had money! Protection from Lady Lowlin herself! We would've liked you!"

"I'd rather be hated by criminals and fight for my king than be accepted into your cesspool of friends."

The mountainous man yelled in anger. Roden jumped away from the giant fists swinging toward his face and torso. 

But the constant dodging was too much. 

His footing became more and more unstable as he leapt from corner to corner. Pain shot through his body each time the mountainous man landed a blow. Roden ducked as the mountainous man tried to pummel the side of his head, but he was one step behind. The mountainous man took a jumping kick to Roden's hip, effectively knocking him to the ground.

Seeing the mountainous man's gloating face above him caused a new wave of fury to course through Roden's battered bones. 

If it weren't for the boot weighing down on his chest, Roden would've put up more of a fight. 

Like the others who'd managed to gain a rare victory over Roden, the mountainous man asked for his last words. 

Getting his sternum splintered into his lungs wasn't Roden's ideal way to die.

"I did it. I managed to beat you," the mountainous man gloated.

Roden said nothing. He wondered what he could've done to change the outcome of this fight.

Why hadn't the Faola come to help him?

After all, wasn't it Roden who came to the Faola's aid first? 

All people who went around justice were the same. This giant and the Faola-

It dawned on Roden that he hadn't seen the Faola move. The fallen bandit was nowhere in sight. 

The mountainous man bent his knees, preparing to jump on Roden's ribcage when a gravelly chuckle caught his attention. 

Much like the sculptured Saints in Drylliad's cathedral, the Faola was standing with his arms stretched out, towering above the mountainous man by standing on the table. 

Roden rolled his eyes. 

"I'm going to have to ask you not to do that," the Faola said, his voice cracking. He coughed in an attempt to cover it up. 

"Once I'm done with him, I'll-," the man started, but the Faola interrupted him.

"Good sir, you of all people understand that there's few people in this world with faces like Captain Harlowe's. Murder is a crime, but so is-"

"Shut up! I'm coming for you next!"

Roden's ears turned pink, and he scowled at the Faola. 

"Sire, please." If the Faola was trying to make the mountainous man angry, it was working. 

Something that probably wouldn't help Roden's case.

The mountainous man growled, and squatted again as he prepared to squish Roden like a bug.

However, the excruciating pain from shattered ribs never came.

Grunts and thuds rocked the room. 

The Faola had hurled himself at the mountainous man's tree trunk neck, and was hanging on for dear life as the mountainous man slammed himself and the Faola into several walls. 

Roden ignored the aching in his body and once again joined the fray. He drove a sharp punch into the mountainous man's stomach, forcing him to breathe in, something that he couldn't do with the Faola's arms crushing his neck.

Roden hit him again. 

Again and again and again until finally, the mountainous man tumbled unconscious onto his back, pinning the Faola to the floor.

The letters that he'd previously boasted about were in his vest pocket. Roden tucked them safely away. He knew about Lady Lowlin and her adoration for beauty.

He knew there were rumors that she bathed in blood to keep her skin from wrinkling.

These letters would prove-

"I- I can't breathe," choked the Faola, his voice once again cracking.

"Saints! I'm so sorry!" Roden cried as he rushed to the Faola's flailing arms. "I won't be able to lift him off you on my own."

"Get him-!"

The Faola couldn't finish his sentence as he began choking down air. 

To the best of his ability, Roden lodged his arms under the unconscious giant. Already he could feel the strain of lifting so much weight. "Help me push. Ready? On three. . ."

A feeble nod came from the Faola.

Roden counted aloud, and lifted the man as high as he could, hoping that it was enough to get the Faola room to breathe. 

Fire seared through his arms, back, and legs as he held the unconscious man up. 

Just a little longer! Just a little-!

The Faola rolled to Roden's feet. With a sigh of relief, he let the man flop back to the ground. All Roden wanted now was to crawl back to his bed and sleep. 

There was nothing he could've wanted more than that. 

Roden rested his elbows on his knees, heaving in great gulps of air. The Faola, who was still at his feet, rubbed his eyes. "Thank you, sir knight."

"I should be-," Roden gasped. "I should be thanking you for bringing this situation to my attention."

"You have the power to hold the gentry responsible for this. Please ensure that you do."

"The letters will be enough evidence for action to be taken."

"And what will happen to the three runts?"

"They'll be held for a week to see if their parents return, and if not, they'll be handled by the queen. You think it'd be alright to sit down for a few moments?"

The Faola pushed himself up on his elbows, and gestured to the dark tunnel, "You earned it. I'll keep an eye out for any trespassers."

"Just a few-, just a few minutes and then we'll have to tie these brutes up and get out of here," Roden slouched back into one of the chairs the defeated thugs had used. 

He was grateful that the Faola didn't say anything more.

And he was grateful when the Faola slipped into the darkness. 

Though the Faola was a bandit, Roden didn't have the heart to send the man who'd helped him to the dungeons. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

That next morning, Jaron froze Roden's duties, and then told him he'd be trapped in a tower unless he took the day to recuperate.

The rain would've made training miserable and difficult. Roden likely would've ended drills early to keep his men from getting ill.

A blessing in disguise. 

Despite not having a cloak, he made his way out of the castle gates and into the nearly empty city streets. Taverns and inns were packed full of people. 

Icy anxiety urged him to turn back. 

But he didn't.

Roden stifled a groan as he pushed the front door of the Dragon's Keep open. Inside, a fire roared, dripping wet cloaks hung from pegs. People tapped their steaming tankards together. Dawn was scrubbing away at the wooden bar.

"Let the captain sit there! You're not dead!" Dawn smiled as she shooed another patron away from his bar stool.

Sheepishly, Roden gestured to the seat, explaining to the patron that since he was there first, it was his. "I suppose not, but I did have a few more bruises than I wanted."

"Anything I can get for you?" 

"Is Merry or Jolly here?" Asked Roden, almost embarrassed to admit that he was bored and didn't want to be alone. 

Jaron, Imogen, Mott, Amarinda, Tobias, as well as his father weren't able to use rain as an excuse for stopping their work. Roden didn't dare disturb them, especially since Imogen was training a new lady-in-waiting and Amarinda and Harlowe were trying to meet with a handful of Bymarian representatives.

Dawn called for one of the barmaids, asking her if she’d seen Jolly.

Apparently, he’d been staying at the castle, intent on wooing Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting.

That would only end in tears for both parties. 

Roden had been present for many of Jolly’s fits over how he wished he could write a song for each one of his favorites. He’d gotten quite close to that the last time Roden heard. 

Merry was balancing a bucket of water in her hand, a mug in another, and a tray on her head. Without thinking, Roden abandoned Dawn at the wooden bar, and took both the bucket and the tray from her head. 

Saints, that simple action made his sore arms scream with fire. 

“Morning, Captain Harlowe,” Merry smiled. She gestured to the tray, “I can take that, you shouldn’t-”

“I want to help you, Merry. I can carry a bucket and a tray.”

Her gaze fixated on the dark bruise encompassing Roden’s eye. Merry’s frown almost made Roden feel- it almost-

No, it did make him feel embarrassed. He felt stupid for sporting that bruise. 

“Let me drop this off and then I’ll get you something for your eye. It won’t even smell, how nice is that?” She spun on her heels, having plucked the tray from Roden’s hands and dropped off the contents before he realized what she’d said. 

Despite protesting Roden’s efforts to help her, Merry had no problem shoving the water bucket into the arms of another barmaid. She announced that it was her turn to eat lunch, took Roden by the wrist, and dragged him to the back room. 

He was surprised at the room’s neatness. In Roden’s experience, the back room of a tavern had no windows, moldy food, and discard clothing.

It was obvious that the barmaids lived back here. The shutters had been left open despite the rain, but somebody had cleared the area by the window and covered the space with a cloth. Water dripped over the window sill, but aside from a fading puddle, kept most of the water out while letting the light in. A tiny fire flickered in the corner.

A shelf stored five boxes, one for each girl. Old tankards housed a variety of plants. Sleeping mats were stacked on top of each other. 

There was a sense of intimacy that came from being in the room. This place was where Merry kept her few belongings.

She’d brought him into the private place she shared with her fellow barmaids. 

Merry reached for one of the boxes, and withdrew a vial of what looked like dirt. She uncorked the bottle with an impressive pop. “It’s mallow root, one of the girls gets a rise out of watching her favorites fight for her. Lots of bruises. Don’t worry, though, I’m not going to encourage you to get your face punched in once the bruising fades.”

“I’d hope not, getting bruises is quite painful,” Roden reasoned, watching as Merry set the vial in a metal pot he assumed to be filled with water. 

“Where’d you get, ah,” Merry leaned back against the fireplace, and gestured to her eye. “Where’d you get the bruise?”

He hoped his ears weren’t turning pink.

“Take a guess, first.”

“Hm, let’s see. I think, no. I know where you got it from. It was raining last night, raining wildly enough that it challenged the ocean. The fish from the sea swam through the air to get a glimpse at Carthya, I’m sure of it. They were bored and wanted change.”

Roden caught himself nodding at the joke, “Yes, yes, you’re on the right track. Let’s see if you can guess what happened next.”

With a laugh Merry threw her hands up, wiggling her fingers as she brought her hands down, demonstrating the ferocity of the rain, “The fish aren’t used to Carthyan streets, you see, so they got very confused because they’re Avenian. One fish was trying his very best to obey the rules, but it was so dark he couldn’t see anything. . . And he headbutted your eye! Don’t worry, he’s sorry though.”

“It was a misunderstanding, I just hope all of the fish managed to make it home on time for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry about your eye too.” 

Her teasing grin seemed to be fighting off a frown.

He tried his best to smile. “At least I still have it.”

“Do you mind telling me what really happened?” Merry asked as she retrieved the vial and the water. An earthy smell wafted through the room as Merry mixed the mallow route with water. She looked at him expectantly from time to time.

“I, ah, I was patrolling the Vaults last night. Alone. For some reason I foolishly thought that it wouldn’t be difficult, but there was trouble,” Roden looked away. He didn’t like telling her this, and yet, he was soon explaining the entire situation.

Merry listened intently.

Roden rubbed the back of his neck as he finished recounting the events from the previous night. “Lost my sword, but I managed to solve the problem though, so I suppose that’s all that matters.”

A scowl crossed Merry’s face, “You got hurt. That matters too. And you lost your sword.”

“It’s replaceable.”

“You still liked it.”

Well, that was true. There were a few nicks in the blade that told stories, but Roden could just put new nicks in a new sword. 

“Be safer, Captain Harlowe, when you’re on patrol,” Merry crossed her arms. Her eyebrows had furrowed together. “There are some things you can’t- some things you can’t walk away from. And the Vaults-”

“Are dangerous, I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Don’t be a fool when dealing with the people who hunt down there. They’d take too much joy in putting your head on a pike.”

“My safety isn’t as important as protecting those who can’t save-”

“Yes it is! Because if you’re not there to-,” Merry pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re my friend, and I care about you. The people love you, Captain, they feel safe because of you. Just- just don’t be alone, next time, please.”

But he hadn’t been alone, he had the Faola.

Roden nodded and remained silent for only a moment, watching as Merry switched from rubbing her wrists to holding her left earlobe. “Thank you, Merry, and I’m sorry.”

She tried to smile, “I should apologize for the lecture.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever received.”

“Do you have any tips on how I can achieve worst lecturer status?”

“Unfortunately, Tobias will always hold that position, it’s non challengeable.”

Merry’s slight smile widened. “Then I’ll try to be your supporter instead.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

He wasn’t paying attention. Merry had stepped towards him, and rested the back of her hand on his forehead. “No fever, that’s good! Hold still, this is going to feel odd.”

It was nearly impossible not to squirm as Merry gently applied the poultice to the bruise on his eye. 

It was nearly impossible not to lean into her cool hand on his cheek. 

“Do you think the fish will come back?” Merry wiped her hands on her apron.

Her cool, callused hands. 

Was his smile alright?

Was that allowed?

Roden once again rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope so, I need to apologize to the fish for being in his way.”

“I’m sure the fish understands, you could always get one from the river and tell it to tell the fish you bumped into that you’re sorry. Although I’d advise you to take caution, river fish are cranky.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Merry patted Roden’s face, and walked away.

He knew he’d replay the fish story in his head, and he ran his thumb over the coin hanging from his belt

Dawn gave it to him before he’d gone to the Vaults. She’d said it was from a friend. It was a keepsake. A gift.

The coin’s face bore the outline of a fish.


	8. Just a Day in the Life

Jaron drummed his fingers against his right leg. 

The leg he'd broken.

Sometimes he touched it to make sure that it was still healed. Even though it had been years since he'd gotten the injury, he still had trouble realizing that he was alright.

He wasn't broken. 

Lord Feall and King Oberson were seated in front of him, separated by Jaron's large desk. Both men were silent. Both were unable to look at Jaron for very long. 

In a way, Jaron enjoyed watching them squirm, they'd crossed a line by not telling him about Queen Danika's missing investigators sooner. 

Was this how Mott felt each time Jaron did something he wasn't supposed to and got himself caught?

"Your Majesty, we-," Oberson began, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"We'll discuss the situation when the ambassador arrives," said Jaron. 

However, Feall didn't agree with Jaron's declaration, it seemed. "If I must be honest, we don't even know the situation anymore."

"Lady Amarinda does, and we'll wait for her to come before we make any assumptions, Lord Feall. I'm a little disappointed, I thought we were friendly enough to discuss political matters."

Feall frowned, and didn't respond.

Boredom was turning Jaron's feet to stone. He hated being bored. There was too much to do and too much to see. 

And it was raining still. 

He promised Fink they'd go out and hunt for frogs to terrorize Roden with.

The door to Jaron's study creaked open, and in walked Amarinda in a wide-necked blue gown. Her hair was strung up in a golden net. There wasn't any sign of a frown on her face. She dipped her head in greeting when Jaron, Feall, and Oberson stood up. 

"My lords," she smiled. "I've brought several papers with me if you'd much rather read my words rather than listen to what I have to say."

"Please, start from the beginning. Reading wastes time," Jaron waved his hand in a dismissing motion. He was joking, of course. 

Oberson shrunk in his seat with his head in his hands, but aside from his posture, didn't voice any complaint about listening to Amarinda's debrief.

There were some people who could dominate their foes on the battlefield. Others could crush their enemies without shedding a drop of blood. They could outwit their opponents with words.

Amarinda was a battle master when it came to using words for weapons. She never degraded her opponents with crude words. Never compared people to dehumanizing objects. She recognized that while people didn't agree with her, they were still human beings.

This was how she guided her foes into a corner, their only option being to take her hand and join her cause.

Her goal was not to destroy. Her goal was to create, that's what Tobias claimed. 

And he was right.

Amarinda created gateways for better ideals.

Jaron caught himself grinning as he prepared for what Amarinda had to say.

She clasped her hands behind her back. "Gentlemen, we share a home country. One we take pride in. We've given many privileges to those who prove themselves to be just servants of society, but unfortunately, there was an abuse of power several years ago. I know you are aware of what happened on Idunn Craich to Noble House Thay. Rumors were sparked and an entire family was executed without a proper trial.

"Though Their Majesties Queen Danika and King Norman don't condone chasing every rumor they hear, they've made an exception. They were informed that Mireldis Thay, who would've been a child during her house's execution, managed to escape into Carthya. Many of the most skilled researchers and investigators were sent to Carthya to confirm these rumors. Their goal was to find evidence supporting Thay's innocence, and bring her home.They were stopped on their way here for several days, and during that time, I was informed that you King Oberson, went out of your way to visit them without informing the Carthyan Crown that they'd arrived," Amarinda held her head high, almost challenging Oberson to deny her claims.

He didn't, not couldn't he. 

Many people had seen him ride out to meet with Danika's representatives.

A heavy pause hung over the air. Both Jaron and Amarinda were waiting for either men to try to deny her claims.

When they didn't speak, Jaron nodded. It was his turn to continue the conversation. 

"Lord Feall, I was told by my captain of the guard that the investigators who were sent here were, in actuality, trying to find evidence against Thay, and that you were promoting the search in defiance of Queen Danika's orders, is this true?" Jaron kept his gaze steady, looking for any flaws in Feall's face that would betray him. 

Another heavy pause.

Feall didn't squirm, and he looked at Jaron with a fierce, burning loyalty in his eyes. "King Jaron, I did request that the investigators search for evidence against Thay as well."

He fell silent. 

Probably waiting for Jaron to condemn him.

However, Jaron was intrigued. He appreciated Feall's honesty. It was something that didn't come often within circles of power. Jaron motioned for Feall to continue.

"I felt a duty to ensure justice," Feall remained stoic. "While I do believe that Thay is innocent, I don't agree with only playing one side. Without considering if House Thay was really guilty, it is possible that Queen Danika's quest for reparations will bring disaster upon Bymar. Thay would likely take revenge, and as a servant to my country and to yours, I will not allow that to happen."

Amarinda's face darkened, but only for a moment. If Jaron hadn't known her so well, he would've missed her momentary weakness. 

Though he wanted to support his friend, Jaron couldn't deny that Feall had a perfectly good point. 

People weren't black and white.

Too much mystery shrouded what happened with House Thay.

"Do you have any reason to believe that Thay would cause harm?" asked Jaron as he tapped his chin. 

Perhaps he should grow a small beard. People might take him more seriously if he stroked his beard each time he was about to say something. Many regents tried to do that, usually it was right before they did their best to be an advisor to Jaron.

If you were going to act the part, you needed to look the part.

To Jaron's surprise, it was Oberson who answered the question, and not Feall. The portly king withdrew a letter from within his coat. "The seal belongs to Thay, and you- and you can read what she wrote yourself. It was sent to me, but it- but it is clearly directed at Lord Feall."

Jaron beckoned for the letter. 

The words had been written in jet black ink, and the paper was much cleaner than Jaron would've expected. The curling letters obviously belonged to a woman.

Several words had been misspelled:

King Obrson, I understand you've travelled with lord Feall. you know how much he owes me, and I reqest that you give him to me. if you comply, I promise I wont bother you again. please understand my perspective on this, you know me, sir, you know my family

So, Feall did indeed have a good reason to think that Thay was guilty.

"What would you do with Thay if you found her?" Amarinda kept a calm demeanor. 

"I would return her to Queen Danika," Feall explained "Unless, however, she attacks me outright. In which case I would have jurisdiction to decide her fate. An eye for an eye."

"Those laws may work in Bymar, but that's not how we do things here."

"Then, by all means, my lady, I would try to go through with Carthya's judicial process."

Unlike other countries, Jaron didn't enjoy upholding the notion that for every crime committed, you could commit the same in return. Instead, he'd tried to emulate Mendenwal's way of enforcing justice: a vote by a body of people. Typically, two options were given, usually suggested by those who'd been the victim of the crime and the other given by the king.

Death penalties for crimes had to be completely unanimous. 

"Do you think that Thay is trying to attack you still?" Amarinda asked, her hands clasped behind her back once again.

Both Feall and Oberson nodded.

"Which explains why he's looking for the Faola," nodded Jaron. 

"Captain Harlowe informed me that the Faola only began traipsing through Carthya a few days before King Oberson and I arrived."

"This doesn't excuse the fact that you didn't tell us that you lied to me and Lady Amarinda about Queen Danika's representatives."

"And I humbly apologize for that," Feall held his hand over his heart. "If there is a way for me to prove my regret, tell me, and I will do so."

If he and Feall had been better friends, Jaron would've made a joke about the only way to prove his loyalty was by cleaning Jaron's feet, but he doubted the offer would go over well. 

Jaron looked to Amarinda, wondering if she had anything in mind.

She only frowned ever so slightly.

There were many ways that Jaron could force Feall to prove his loyalty. Cruel and humiliating ways. Feall had to have known that. He had to have known the depth of his words.

He'd quite literally given Jaron power over him. 

But Jaron didn't enjoy watching people endure humiliation of any sorts. He didn't think that proving loyalty should come at the expense of anyone's dignity. 

A clever idea crossed Jaron's mind. 

"I'd like you to continue helping Captain Harlowe in patrolling the streets of Drylliad," began Jaron, carefully masking his cleverness. "But you must leave capturing the Faola to him, as well as my friend, Mott. You must trust us to take care of the situation, and that's how I'll know that I can continue to trust you."

Feall inhaled deeply, his brows furrowing together. "Sir, I can't, what you-. No, I mean yes. I will do as you ask, your Majesty."

"Take good care to tread lightly, Lord Feall, this test also represents King Oberson."

"What?" King Oberson burst, his chubby cheeks jiggling with his ferocious outcry. "You can't do this! I need Feall to protect me!"

"You have all of Carthya's guards to keep you safe, as well as your own," Amarinda pointed out.

Several more spluttering protests escaped through Oberson's plump mouth, but eventually, he realized that no amount of begging would get Jaron to change his mind. 

A victory, in a way. 

Jaron was getting another capable military leader to ensure safety in his city, he'd done his best to uphold justice, and he managed to gain a better understanding about the Thay dilemma. 

Unfortunately, however, he also recognized that he probably wouldn't ever understand what happened on Idunn Craich.

But perhaps Avenia's king, Kippenger, might know a little bit. 

He hadn't been to Avenia in ages, and was overdue for a visit to check in on the reforming nation. Jaron made a mental note to suggest a diplomatic mission to Sparling. 

Everybody could use a little change of scenery.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to do, your majesty?" Feall asked, sitting as tall as he could in his chair.

"Yes, I'd quite like it if you gave me your desserts as well. Especially the fancier ones with the tiny decorations." Jaron frowned when Amarinda snorted, as he was being completely serious.

A tiny smile flickered across Feall's face. "If that is what you wish, your Majesty."

"It is what I wish, actually."

"Then I solemnly swear to do all that I can to ensure that your wish is fulfilled. When would you like me to begin patrolling the streets? Would you prefer me to ask Captain Harlowe my questions, or would you like me to ask you?"

Ah, Jaron hadn't thought of any questions that might need answering. 

"Go to Captain Harlowe," he said. "And if Captain Harlowe can't answer them, bring your questions to me. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Several days ago, Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting, Renlyn Karise, pointed out just how bland the great hall was. Of course, Jaron had taken down and sold many decorations on purpose, but Lady Renlyn’s various attempts to sell him exquisite imported decor were slowly growing on him.

No, he needed to use the royal purse to better the lives of his subjects first.

Beautification could come later. 

When he settled into his throne and allowed for his first subject to come forward, Jaron fooled himself into thinking that court would be smooth and quick.

However, as he heard his forty-ninth claim about chickens, he realized that court was going to drag on into the next decade.

It was then that Jaron began wondering if he should heed Renlyn’s advice and have her decorate the great hall.

Maybe he’d have something more interesting to look at than whitewashed stone walls. 

Jaron tapped his chin as he listened to complaint after complaint after complaint. He did his best to listen. Did his best to be a good king, but his patience was running out.

“We have never had a dispute between property before,” said a man from outside the city walls. He was holding a chicken, and pointing at the other villager beside him ever so often. “Always got along, me an’ him, we never did fight. Respected his property, I did, an’ he respected mine. But one day a chicken wandered through both of our yards-”

The chicken holding villager’s friend cut in. “A chicken wandered through both a’ our yards an’ then laid an egg on the line between our two properties!”

“We didn’t really worry about it because we’ve both got our chickens. It wasn’t really worth our time.”

“And then the egg hatched, it did! An’ now we don’t know what to do wif it! It’s a good layer, we’ve been tradin’ off every couple a days, but that just doesn’t cut it! We need you to decide for us!” Finished the second villager, vehemently pointing at the chicken tucked under the first villager’s arm.

“Well, I suppose that answers an age old question. What came first, the chicken, or the egg?” Jaron mused, buying himself time through a joke.

Both villagers frowned. 

By the Saints, he didn’t like explaining jokes, humor always lost when it needed to be explained. 

"There's a riddle people tend to ask when they want to annoy somebody," Jaron explained, sitting forwards in his throne. "They ask what came first, the chicken? Or the egg? And in this case, it was the chicken who came first. Actually, I suppose even that chicken came from an egg. What a conundrum."

"But who gets the chicken?" Asked the second villager with a frown.

"Who cares for it more?"

Both men raised their hands, trying to jostle each other out of the way. The second villager raised his hand to smack the first villager across the back of his bald head. 

The first villager only tucked the chicken into his chest and ducked. 

No blows were given, the second villager wasn't stupid enough to start a fight in the throne room. 

"I have a proposition," said Jaron. He knew it didn't really matter, as he was the king, but he tried to involve his subjects in decision making as much as he possibly could.

"We're listening, your Majesty." The second villager bowed until his nose brushed his boots. 

On the other hand, the first villager only bowed as far as he could without risking dropping the chicken. 

A slight smirk crossed Jaron's face. "How many eggs does the chicken lay each day?"

"One, like the other chickens," the second villager nodded. "I checked every morning while I housed the chicken."

"Actually she lays one egg on the first day of the week, one on the second day, but she lays two on the third day if she is fed scraps from the table instead a grain," the first villager said proudly, holding the fat hen up for everyone to see.

The hen gave a tiny cluck. 

"It's worse than I thought," Jaron muttered, wishing he had Mott beside him to joke with.

"You- you haven't decided who gets the chicken?" The first villager stuttered. "But-"

"He's the king, you fool, he can take as much time as he wants."

Jaron tilted his head at the first villager, who was nervously petting the chicken he cradled. 

He wanted to smile with somebody. Wanted to smile about the fact that somebody loved their chicken so much that they knew how many eggs she laid every day. 

If he were a cruel king, Jaron would've called for the hen to go to the kitchens, only to declare that he wasn't being serious and give the hen back to her rightful owner.

But over time, he'd learned that some tricks and pranks weren't truly funny. 

"I know what's best in this situation," Jaron declared, waving the two villagers away and motioning for the next petitioner to come forward. "The man holding the chicken the same way he'd hold his newborn son gets to give her a permanent home."

He ignored the complaints from the second villager as they were escorted out of the great hall. 

The next petitioner was a young man, requesting that his father be taken out of debtor's prison. Jaron, who was prepared to fight with nobles over situations with people in debt, agreed on the premise that the young man return to inform them if there was another threat from debt-collectors.

Ah, Jaron did get quite the rise out of showing kindness when the nobles had none. 

Court went much quicker after that. As he thought of the first villager happily carrying his hen home, Jaron grinned. 

How somebody could love a chicken so much, he didn't know. 

Late into the afternoon, Harlowe made his way into the great hall, much to Jaron's relief. 

He stood and clasped Harlowe's weathered hand, unashamed of how big his smile had grown. "I'm hoping you came to relieve me of my duties."

"I have, actually," Harlowe said with a grin. "Today was much busier than anybody expected, and I didn't think it quite fair to keep you cooped up inside."

"On the contrary, I didn't mind being held up here for once. It's raining with enough fury to challenge the Devils." 

"Ah, but you won't let that stop you from what you wish to do with your afternoon, I hope," chuckled Harlowe, his blue eyes sparkling with a glimmer of content. 

"Absolutely not." Jaron couldn't hide his smile. "My bones are aching from sitting."

"I wish I could tell you that aching goes away, but it only gets worse. No, no, I tease."

Jaron couldn't resist. He threw his arms around Harlowe's neck in a sloppy embrace. "Thank you, thank you for coming to fill in."

Harlowe patted Jaron's shoulder. "As prime regent, it's my obligation to ensure that the king can handle his duties. And as someone who cares about you, it's my obligation to make sure you don't run yourself into the ground."

It was still odd. . .

Having multiple people care about his well being.

"I really appreciate it, Harlowe, and I mean it."

"Then go, my king." That sparkling contentment in Harlowe's eyes rivaled the lazy Roving River. "Your friends await you." 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Was it wrong to take pride in what he’d managed to set up? 

It had taken almost all afternoon, and required the help from not only Roden and Tobias, but from Jolly, Lady Renlyn, and Mott too.

In the end, it was perfect.

For several weeks, Jaron had been meaning to take Imogen away from the hustle and bustle of castle life. Although they weren’t in a position to leave for more than a day or two, they could manage to spare a night away from their duties. 

And he’d finally done it. 

“Don’t tell Imogen anything,” Jaron said firmly, trying his best to stare down Lady Renlyn Karise as they stood in one of the castle hallways. 

It wasn’t easy.

Lady Renlyn was taller than him by a good inch. 

“I promise I won’t tell,” Renlyn crossed her arms. “But be thankful, the queen isn’t always the type to enjoy a surprise.”

“See, people say that, but then get excited when they’re surprised.”

Renlyn only stared in response.

“Mad that I got you cornered?” No, no answer from that either. Jaron waved his hands in defeat. “You’re dismissed, I don’t need you and your disapproval.”

“Disapproval?” Renlyn arched an eyebrow.

“Yes! Disapproval, you’re not exactly subtle about it, Lady Karise.”

“Good, it means I’ve finally got my point across.”

“Aren’t you in a feisty mood today?” Jaron snickered, putting his hands on his hips.

He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he wanted from Renlyn. She was remaining completely placid. “This is how I always behave, my king.”

“Is not, you’re nicer to me.”

“On the contrary, I think I’m being nicer to you now.”

He’d known the Karises before. 

From his days when his family was still alive. 

Jaron hadn’t been the closest to Renlyn when they were children, it’s true. She’d rather mix various ingredients together to eliminate her least favorite dolls while Jaron would rather track dirt all over the place.

In a way, it also reflected the way they handled situations at court. 

Renlyn wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done. Already the notorious gossipers of court were spreading their opinions on Renlyn’s ambition. She had but one fear: Recognition. Most of her opponents slipped away in the night, never to disturb her again.

Jaron would much rather stay away from gossipers and the like. 

Made things less messy. 

Unfortunately, Jaron didn’t get his retort spoken in time, as Renlyn walked away, taking the final say with her as she went to Imogen’s study. 

Their exchange couldn’t bring Jaron down from the excitement searing through his veins. 

Each step he took made him feel light, yet heavy. Time couldn’t pass fast enough. He was beginning to pace. To the wall. Back to where he’d stood. To the wall again. Back to where he stood. The pattern continued for what seemed like ages, but Jaron knew better than that.

The clock stationed by the door, a huge monster of wood and metal, chimed. 

It was better that a few minutes passed rather than no minutes at all, Jaron reasoned.

And then Imogen quietly stepped into the room.

Dressed in a pale blue blouse with matching split skirts, Imogen couldn’t hide her smile. For a moment, Jaron suspected that Renlyn spilled the secret surprise waiting just outside the castle walls. 

He offered an arm out to Imogen, escorting her through the great hall and out into the courtyard.

“I really hope there’s no crocodiles involved,” Imogen muttered as Jaron helped her into Mystic’s saddle.

Jaron cringed as comically as he could, and then swung into place right behind Imogen. “Well, ah, guess you’re not going to like what I have in store.”

Imogen’s laugh was worth all of the hassle Jaron had put into his special surprise.

The sun was barely dipping down below the horizon, throwing golden rays of light into the crisp air. A slight shimmer appeared on Imogen’s cheeks. Jaron pressed a kiss to her temple, her hair, her chin, anywhere he could reach.

She was giggling when she pushed his face away.

“Let me kiss you, silly girl,” Jaron hummed, only to once again be pushed away.

“Absolutely not, it’s embarrassing!”

“I want the entire kingdom to know how much I love my wife! It’s not embarrassing at all!”

“Yes it is!”

“No it’s not!”

“Get your filthy lips off my hair,” Imogen laughed. “I’m serious, Jaron! You’re going to run us into a-,” suppressed giggles prevented her from finishing her sentence. 

“Last one, I promise.” True to his word, Jaron pressed one last kiss to Imogen’s temple, and pulled away.

Imogen leaned back against his chest. “Renlyn and I were discussing what to do with the trio of children Roden brought to us.”

“Please tell me you gave them new names.”

“We suggested it, but they didn’t seem to catch onto the idea.”

“What did you and Lady Renlyn decide? Are you going to ship them off?”

“Quite the contrary, actually,” Imogen was smiling, Jaron could hear it in her voice. “Renlyn took the subject to a business ally she has in court, and the children are to become wards here in court. We’ll be able to keep an eye on them.”

“I do love more company, maybe those three will take the spotlight off of my antics.”

“Very unlikely, but you can always hope that’ll happen.”

“Oh Imogen of such little faith.”

“Oh Jaron of such high energy.”

With a snicker, Jaron buried his face in her hair for a moment. “Copying my words now are you?” 

“I suppose I am.”

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Imogen countered. “Do you prefer that I copy everything you say? Is that what makes you happy?”

“Is that what makes me happy? No, it doesn’t.”

“Then what does?”

“Being with you.”

A blush spread across Jaron’s face despite the fact that he was the one saying silly flowering comments, not the one they were directed at.

He loved Imogen.

She was safe.

Without the company of guards, it was much easier to have a personal conversation.

Much easier for both Jaron and Imogen to just. . . be together.

“I, ah, I confronted Feall and King Oberson,” Jaron said over the sound of Mystic’s hooves on Drylliad’s cobblestone streets.

Imogen reached back, her hand trailing down the side of his face. “And what happened?”

The simple, shy gesture left warmth careening through his toes. Jaron tightened his arms around her waist. His heart pounded through his ribcage, but not with fear.

His heart pounded with pure, sunshine comfort. 

Sunshine comfort that didn’t fade away with each new morning. 

“I questioned them both, and made an offer to Feall. He trusts us to take care of the Faola, and I won’t expel him back to Bymar,” said Jaron. “I, ah, I’m playing this game for the long run.”

“As you should,” Imogen gestured to a group of ducklings swimming in the Roving River, then motioned for Jaron to continue.

He shrugged, “I plan on speaking with Kippenger.”

“Regarding House Thay?”

“Yes, but also no. Kippenger is my ally despite the history between us. I want to ensure his, and Avenia’s, success. I want to know if Carthya needs to send aid in any form, and if we need to, I fully intend to send the best.”

Kippenger was a new king.

There was no doubt that there were some Avenians who disagreed on Kippenger’s right to reign.

Revolution had to be brewing on their minds.

Imogen paused, connecting what Jaron said and what he was implying. “You need a backup in case you have to send Roden and military reinforcements to Avenia.”

“I don’t want to put Mott in any more danger than he puts himself in,” Jaron muttered. “Feall’s reputation is spotless. He wouldn’t be there for very long either, maybe a few weeks. And it’s-”

“Jaron, you don’t have to explain your choices. I trust your judgement.” Imogen said, but then she tilted her head, preparing to amend her statement. “I trust your judgement when it comes to people.”

“You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Though she didn’t say anything, Jaron could feel her quiet grin radiating through the air.

They rode in silence through the woods, waving at the few people they passed, and breathing in the sunset air.

And yet, despite the comfort, Jaron couldn’t fight the anxiety gnawing at his insides any longer.

What if Imogen didn’t like what he’d set out for her?

What if-

No. 

If Lady Renlyn Karise, notorious stone-faced, heartless, ambitious businesswoman, liked what had been set out, Imogen certainly would.

The road curved left. Imogen only protested slightly when Jaron guided Mystic to continue straight. 

“We, ah, I’m going to dismount,” Jaron stuttered. “But you can stay on, I’ll just guide Mystic.”

“I can walk,” Imogen insisted.

“If- ah, if you want to, I won’t stop you.”

He knew she’d enjoy the surprise, and yet, he was afraid. 

Afraid that she wouldn’t-

No. Imogen was his wife. There was nothing to be scared of. 

Nimbly, Jaron dismounted, and held out a hand for Imogen to do the same. He held Mystic’s reins with one hand, and entwined his fingers with Imogen’s with the other. 

“Your palms are sweaty, Jaron. Are you alright?”

“I dipped them in the fountain before we came, they must not have dried.”

“You’re acting a little- oh.” Her face shifted from confusion, and then to shock.

Before them, Jaron had brought a ragged quilt he’d found in Tithio, boasting squares Imogen’s mother had made herself. Large pillows were scattered about in all shapes and sizes, some hidden behind additional blankets. 

Plates of food rested on curling iron stands. A bucket of ice housed two large bottles of something sweet, Jaron hadn’t been able to decide what to take, so he relied on his head chef’s opinion. Candles on holders and stands were placed in clusters in strategic positions. Crystals hung from tree branches.

“I thought about bringing music, but I could only think of Jolly, and I didn’t want him eating everything I brought,” Jaron said sheepishly. “This- this,ah, isn’t all. I have-”

“I love it, Jaron, I absolutely love it,” Imogen was quiet, her fingers steepled together and resting against her nose. 

“That’s not all, I, ah, there’s more to the surprise.”

Fink’s head poked out from one of the trees, but thankfully disappeared the second Jaron frantically shooed him away. 

Imogen was still marvelling at the quilt. “This is perfect.”

Once again, Fink appeared. 

Changing his plan, Jaron motioned for Fink to bring the final gift. The transaction happened in the knick of time, Fink was dashing back to the castle before Imogen looked up from the quilt squares.

Jaron held the package behind his back. “I, um, I couldn’t resist. I wanted to spend time with you. Just you, Imogen.”

“I really appreciate it,” her smile was tinged with a bright pink blush. “I don’t-, I don’t really know what to say.”

“This will probably make it worse, then.”

“Jaron? What are you-?”

He held out the package for Imogen to see. 

In his hands, rested a cream colored cat with a bright pink bow hanging loosely from its neck. Imogen covered her face with her arm for a moment. When she finally looked at the kitten again, she was beaming. 

“You got me a kitten,” she mumbled, covering her bright pink cheeks with her hands. “Is it mine?”

“If you want it, yes. And ‘it’ is a ‘she’, if that influences what her name is going to be,” Jaron said as he sat down beside Imogen, holding the small cat out to her.

“Where did you find her?”

Jaron didn’t mean for an instant scowl to ruin his smile. “Renlyn sold it to me.”

“Ah, I think I know why,” Imogen scratched the cat’s ears. “We were discussing different royal pets. Supposedly, there are specific cats you can train to listen to you.”

“I’m not quite sure how true that is, especially coming from Renlyn.”

“We’ll just have to find out.”

The tiny cat mewed, and tried to climb up Imogen’s blouse sleeve. She untied the ribbon, cradling the cat to herself. 

Nothing in the world could’ve made Jaron feel the same way that Imogen’s smile did.


	9. On the Horizon

Tobias wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the summer heat piercing his long sleeved tunic. He loved his work. He loved being able to see results, being able to visibly help other people. It was his mentor, the castle’s official physician, who’d suggested Tobias set up temporary clinics in the poorer areas of the city. 

It would give him good practice. 

The temporary clinics were nothing like the pristine physician’s suites in the castle, but it was certainly better than a pigsty. It was always set up in the morning by the earliest patrol. A large striped tent was set up in the middle of a large space surrounded by dying buildings. This kept patients out of the heat. 

Due to his dedication, Tobias had climbed higher than many of the other apprenticed physicians. He was the one telling the others to get patients clean, keep a steady supply of water, and clean up any mess. 

Power felt good. Power over a group of people with a similar cause.

The truth was, he liked not having to sweep floors, he liked cleaning people up. He liked stitching them back together.

That was what his ‘power’ brought him.

In the heat, Tobias requested that canopies be set up in addition to the central tent. It would be easier to work that way. He gently patted his current patient’s shoulder after bandaging the patient’s infected wound. The instructions were clear: Keep clean or he wouldn’t survive. 

The new trend of cleanliness was creating a string of new businesses. 

Or at least that’s what Renlyn Karise said. Everyone was racing to build up their own bath houses. Racing to supply water to people who could pay for it. 

Renlyn played her cards well. 

She was one of the few members of the gentry providing water for free, in turn, she received a new wave of Carthyan employees.

Supposedly she was setting up an office in Drylliad dedicated to building structures.

Business to Renlyn was like medicine to Tobias. 

The patient thanked Tobias profusely, and walked away. With a grin, Tobias handed his used instruments to the nearest assistant, and moved on to the next canopy. A new bag of tools and a new patient were waiting for him.

“You see, Mott, I was able to track down the doctors that healed Imogen after she was shot through her shoulder,” Tobias said as he opened up his bag of instruments. “Because that kind of survival? Nearly impossible. He wouldn’t tell me his name, though, it took a lot of string pulling on both my part and Amarinda’s part.”

Mott, who often accompanied Tobias during a temporary clinic, scratched the back of his bald head. “Right. I have a feeling you’re going to tell me all about it no matter what my answer is, what did he say?”

“Cleanliness is key. He did a study in which he followed doctors with used instruments as well as doctors who used clean ones. Those with dirty instruments had a higher mortality rate.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Mott nodded. “Dirty cities tend to have higher plague rates, or at least they did.”

“I’m glad you- please stick your tongue out, ma’am- noticed that,” Tobias squinted at his patient’s throat. “It appears that you have white pockets on the back of your throat, you told me it’s quite painful? Do your ears feel jammed too?”

The patient tilted her head left and right. 

Tobias nodded, and stepped away when the patient hacked into the open air. “Good, it’s not an infection of the ear, rather an inflammation of the throat. You can get better if you sleep, drink plenty of- absolutely no ale, I’m sorry- water, and make sure you’re coughing often. Come back in three weeks if symptoms don’t subside.”

“You’re very good at what you do,” said Mott as he leaned against one of the canopy poles.

“Plenty of practice, and my wife is an ambassador, she has a lot of access to the best books in the realm. Thank the Saints for the printing press.”

“Rumor has it that you’re single handedly responsible for the lack of bloated corpses in the streets.”

He didn’t mean to make a face.

There would always be people he couldn’t save, and that didn’t sit well with Tobias. 

What he’d chosen as a profession differed from what Roden did. 

Medicine didn’t label anybody. You were supposed to use it to help everyone in need. 

When a person died under a physician’s care, it was far different from taking a man’s life in battle. It was different because steps had been taken to try to save the patient. Because no matter who the patient was, they were being cared for. 

In battle, it was a contest to see who was strongest. 

Battle crushes compassion. 

Medicine exercised as much compassion as it could. 

Death never sat well with Tobias, he wanted everyone to have the chance to see another sunrise. 

“That’s not true,” Tobias insisted. “Jaron’s the one who's mostly responsible, and I’d put a lot of credit to Imogen and Amarinda. Roden, too. And Renlyn. It’s never the work of one person, it’s the work of a lot of people with good ideas and respect for another human being.”

“Have you been reading books on philosophy too?” Mott arched an eyebrow.

“How did you know?”

“Because I read the same book.”

Tobias opened and shut his mouth several times. A wide grin spread across his face. “Really? I absolutely loved it, though there were some situations where I- please take a seat, sir, I was told you have an injury on your foot and you mustn't put any more pressure on it- didn’t agree with the author.”

“That’s the point of philosophy, is it not?” Mott narrowed his eyes at the patient’s wet boots. “I don’t make a habit of philosophy, but that book was certainly worth my time.”

“Good, good! I thought- sir, can you remove your boot please?” Asked Tobias, trying his best to juggle both conversations.

To his dismay, he couldn’t carry both. 

As gingerly as he could, Tobias removed the patient’s boot, and kept a straight face as the smell assaulted his nose. 

The foot seemed normal, but Tobias knew better to dismiss a patient’s concern based off of appearance only. Shifting around in his bag of instruments, Tobias withdrew a cloth, and used it to cover his hands while he touched the patient’s foot.

There weren’t many things Tobias disliked, except for feet. 

But his love for what he did helped him overcome that loathing in order to help people like his current patient.

“When did you begin feeling pain?” Tobias asked after thoroughly touching the foot. “Does it ever flare up?”

The patient held up his hand and tilted it from side to side. “Fales up on occasion, usually after I’ve worked a long day.”

“And when did this pain start?”

“Er, ah, I took up a second job hauling metal for the blacksmith. My foot started hurting a week or two after I began.”

Ah, that second job would certainly contribute.

So many of the patients Tobias saw had afflictions that could be cured with a little rest, and a little less consumption of liquors. Renlyn’s attempt to provide fresh water to those who couldn’t get any was helping, but as people were working themselves to death, there was only so much water could do.

“You mentioned that the pain flares,” noted Tobias, suddenly very aware of the fact that the cobblestones were hurting his knees. He rocked back onto his heels, “Can you tell me when they get unbearable? And when they’re not painful at all?”

“I, ah, let me think,” the patient’s shoulders twitched. “They don’t get so bad on the Saints’ day. I think they’re the worst on the last working day of the week. I suppose it builds up over time.”

All it took was that explanation to confirm Tobias’s diagnosis. 

Unfortunately, the patient likely wouldn’t like it.

He cleared his throat, trying to pick out the best words to describe what needed to be done. “Sir, you don’t have any fractures of the bone, nor any growths or other bad things. . . But you’re working yourself to exhaustion.”

The patient was silent. Tobias could feel Mott’s eyes lingering on the scene, taking in the utter disappointment. Asking the patient to work less was asking him to starve. Asking him to let his family starve.

And that notion made Tobias’s heart begin to whimper. It made his heart break in two. 

His patient should be allowed to rest. 

He should be allowed to build up his strength. 

Allowed to take a moment to ease his aching feet. 

“Sir, if you want to make the best recovery you can, you’ll-,” Tobias heaved in a breath, panic crawling up his spine in tiny steps. “Your feet aren’t broken in any way, but they’re tired. Your body is tired. You must take more than a day of rest in order to prevent further injury.”

The patient hung his head.

Behind him, Mott stiffened. Tobias could sense the sudden change in the atmosphere around them. He was preparing to defend Tobias in case the patient grew violent.

It had been several weeks since the last patient tried to hurt him, but it wasn’t something Tobias could ever forget. 

After several moments of silence, the patient nodded. “How long would I be unable to work?”

“Depends. If you completely take the pressure off of your feet, I suppose you could recover in a few days. You’ll want to eventually build up strength, but you do that in small increments, not by lugging metal and other wares around for nearly a whole week.”

“I, ah, I have my family to think of.”

Tobias didn’t mean to wince. He’d known that was coming, and he wished with all of his heart that he’d solve the-

“Lord Branch, it truly is a nice afternoon,” said a familiar, catlike voice.

“Lady Karise, I was just meeting with a patient. We’re discussing the best way for him to recover,” Tobias glanced back at the woman behind him.

“Oh?” Renlyn shielded her eyes against the sun. She had to be blistering hot in her gown and veil. “Is there a price to be paid?”

“Not necessarily,” the patient bowed his head, murmuring the appropriate titles for the woman before him. 

“Then why is both patient and doctor so disenhearted?”

As subtle as he could, Tobias nodded at his patient. Renlyn wouldn’t have him flogged for speaking to her. Or at least he didn’t think so.

There was an air of nervousness as Tobias’s patient brought his eyes from the ground to Renlyn’s face. Reverence filled his voice. “My lady, Lord Branch has asked- has informed me that my pain will go away given a little rest. . .”

Renlyn arched an eyebrow, both she and Tobias were waiting for the outcome of their discussion.

“My family depends on my, my lady, that’s all I have to say on the matter. I will not let them starve,” the patient finished by bowing his head once again. 

“True dedication,” Renlyn mused. 

Something mischievous was sparkling in her eyes. Tobias could see it from where he sat. He could see that glimmer as clear as the daylight illuminating Drylliad.

“What are you implying?” Tobias tried not to frown, there were all too many possibilities about what Renlyn was trying to get across.

“I promise you, dear sir, that you will be taken care of.” That twinkle still hadn’t left Renlyn’s eyes. “If you swear to rest for a week.”

The patient stuttered to life, “But how? What-”

“You will simply have to trust me, my friend.”

Tobias wrinkled his nose, but said nothing.

He still didn’t know Renlyn well enough to understand the multiple games she was playing.

The games she was playing and winning.

“Goodbye then,” Renlyn clasped her hands behind her back. And yet, despite her farewell, remained planted where she stood.

Tobias and his patient exchanged a look. There were many things to be done around the temporary clinic, it would be foolish and inconsiderate of Tobias to toss aside Renlyn’s quiet offer to help.

“Ah, there’s many patients who need water, if you wouldn’t mind helping them,” Tobias said, and then he looked at his patient’s wet shoes. “And if you could spare a-”

“Pair of boots?”

“Yes, actually. These ones aren’t suitable, they’re soaked and worn full of holes.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Renlyn tipped her head, and retrieved the discarded boot. 

Tobias flashed a bright smile at his patient. “Stay here for a little while longer and rest.”

“Sir, I- ah, thank you,” the patient shifted. “But it’s a lot to ask me to go on blind faith. The nobles aren’t exactly. . .”

“Kind?”

“Exactly.”

There was something stirring in Tobias's chest. Something hot and ready to fight. He heaved in a breath, knowing that this was a deciding moment.

He was deciding that yes, he did trust Lady Renlyn Karise. 

“I can promise you that Lady Karise doesn’t go back on her promises,” he held a hand over his heart. “I suppose that’s why she doesn’t make many of them.”

“Then I’ll take your word for it, Lord Tobias.”

“It’s alright, I try not to throw my title around while I work, sir-” 

What a fool. Tobias had never asked for his patient’s name. He hadn’t expected to get so involved in his patient’s life.

“Derforgall,” the patient flashed a grin. “Calagan Deforgall.”

“Any relation to Alistair Derforgall? One of the king’s knights?” Tobias scratched the back of his head, curious about Derforgall’s answer.

He nodded. “Alistair is my son.”

“He’s a good man, I’ve heard a lot about him.”

A smile crossed Derforgall’s face. “I couldn’t be more proud of Alistair, he’s my oldest son, and he does what he can for us. It’s not much, and I don’t expect him to provide for me while I can still work. He’s too foolish in trying to give us things. My wife, she, ah, she has a habit of kindness. Alistair learned that from her, and I take pride in knowing he is in a place to use that kindness for good.”

Tobias caught himself nodding. Kindness was perhaps the most valuable currency in the realms. There wasn’t much of it following the Avenian War.

But many people were trying to prove otherwise. 

And Tobias would do all that he could to contribute.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The temporary clinics remained standing well into the evening. Tobias, Mott, Renlyn, and the others had their hands full with various different tasks, varying into all sorts of forms. Renlyn brought water, Mott helped with settling rambunctious patients, and Tobias patched up as many people as he could.

And to top it all off, Derforgall got a new pair of boots. 

However, Renlyn was nowhere to be seen when he was given the boots. In fact, Tobias didn't see her until Derforgall had left, promising that he would rest for a week.

He didn't bring up her promise to Derforgall until they were dismantling the canopies.

"That was very kind of you," Tobias noted as he untied part of the canopy.

Renlyn made a face. "I don't see why it has to be discussed. Many people would do the same."

"Some people argue that it's in man's nature to be kind," said Mott from the opposite end of the canopy. "Shows that you're human, Lady Karise."

"Shame, I was hoping that I was secretly a fairy for the longest time."

"You sure do look like a fairy," chipped in a new voice. Lord Feall was watching from his position on his horse.

No retort came from Renlyn, she only scowled and continued untying parts of the canopy.

"Lord Feall!" Tobias grinned. "What brings you here?"

Feall waved his hand, "I was in the area, just completed patrolling the upper streets. Missed   
helping you lot earlier today, I figured I could make up for it by assisting with the cleanup."

"You have a height advantage, mind grabbing the center of the canopy?" Mott gestured to the aforementioned spot, which was threatening to drop into the cobblestone street and dirty itself.

With a nod of his head, Feall slowly walked his horse forwards, grabbing the center of the canopy. He held it up with both hands as Tobias, Mott, Renlyn, and another attendant scrambled to untie the canopy.

Tobias held his side of the canopy as high as he could, and instructed the others to go to Mott's side. Mott, catching on, began to roll the canopy.

It was all rolled up and stored within a matter of minutes.

They repeated the process for multiple canopies; Tobias profusely thanked Feall for his assistance, to which Feall responded that it wasn't him who needed to be thanked, it was his horse

On the third canopy, Tobias once again mustered the courage to speak to Renlyn.

He could no longer deny his curiosity. 

“Lady Karise, I-,” Tobias began.

“My name is Renlyn, you’re allowed to call me that.”

“Right, ah, Renlyn? You promised Derforgall he’d be taken care of.” He paused, untied the string before him, and continued. “You never specified how he’d be taken care of.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to,” Renlyn frowned at the post in front of her. She glared at the other assistant who’d been looking at her. “I have many ties.”

“To what kind of people, Lady Renlyn?” Mott chimed in, his own eyes glued to the post before him.

“People who have more of an ability to take action.”

“I have many reasons to distrust you, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Is that because I’m a woman of business, sir Mott?”

“Partially, yes.”

Feall cleared his throat. “You can’t be too harsh about the stereotype. Renlyn has proved herself to be as unpredictable as the weather in late summer.”

“First I am a fairy to you, and now I am a storm with human skin,” Renlyn narrowed her eyes at Feall. “Am I something pretty to look at or something you fear?”

“Is it wrong of me to say both?”

Once again, Renlyn had no biting retort, and instead continued with freeing the canopy from the posts it was tied to.

“I believe Lady Karise,” Feall said as a small smile flitted across his face. 

“Thank you, I suppose.” 

“Right, ah, uh,” Tobias stuttered. “I think we should go to the Dragon’s Keep once we’re finished. Roden says there’s a new series of pastries we need to try.”

“I haven’t got anything planned,” shrugged Feall. He then looked to Mott and Renlyn. “What about you two?”

Renlyn tilted her head from side to side. “I’ll make that choice once everything is cleaned.”

Tobias tried to suppress his grin.“And you, Mott?” 

“Haven’t got anything better to do.”

The thought of pastries split between his friends warmed Tobias's sore back. The work went much quicker, and Feall provided many insights on how to correctly weave a lattice for a pie. In turn, a debate sparked between Feall and Mott about which type of lattice was superior.

It didn't take long for the conversation to grow heated enough to make Renlyn crack a grin.

Altogether, Tobias decided that he'd had a victory over the day's passage. He'd managed to set up and take down the canopies in less than a few hours, stitched up several patients, helped a good man, and even managed to see Renlyn grin at the ground.

If there had to be a loss, it was because Mott argued that a pie lattice was much better over the pie crust in general, ensuring there was more pastry to eat.

Seeing the pie filling guarded by artfully placed dough was always a positive in Tobias's eyes. 

With the supply wagons slowly headed back to the castle, Tobias decided that it was appropriate to make their way to the Dragon's Keep.

A sweet, warm pastry was calling his name, he simply knew it.

Feall fell into place beside Renlyn, and Tobias found himself squished in the middle. 

Even Mott was in oddly cheerful spirits. 

Unintentionally, they all pressed together as they passed one of the dark entrances to the ever mysterious Vaults.

Pastries were the goal, not an agonizing death in a place that rivaled the Devils' Lair.

Days later, Tobias would wonder what would've happened if they'd never decided to get pastries.

The attack came out of nowhere.

Nothing could've warned them about the cloaked bandits launching themselves out of hidden crevices. 

They poured out from alleyways, from doorways and from windows.

Mott and Feall reacted much sharper than Tobias did. They faced outwards, keeping the unarmed Tobias and Renlyn safely sandwiched between them. Hooded heads surrounded them all.

One stood out from the rest.

Patched cloak.

Shorter than the others.

"Get his sword!" Bellowed the figure in the patched cloak.

Tobias was able to put the pieces together the second his mind calmed down.

The shrieking figure before him was a Faola. A fugitive Tobias had managed to trust. Had managed to talk his friends at court into trusting.

And here they were, abusing that trust.

“If we make enough noise, Captain Harlowe will come,” Mott said firmly, he’d dug the ball of his foot into one of the cobblestone crevices.

“This place is empty,” explained Feall. He jerked his head towards one of the buildings, “How else would they have gotten here?”

“I still think if we make enough noise, we can-”

“Get his sword, Devils have you!” The Faola barked, gesturing to Feall. When it became evident that nobody wanted to go near him, the Faola began to approach. “And get a rope. They can’t take us, we have higher numbers, we’ll hold the-”

“We’re not supposed to touch nobility,” mused another Faola. This one was short too. 

“I don’t-”

“You should care,” Feall argued back, swiping at the Faola approaching him. “It’ll destroy your reputation here. And you don’t want that now, do you-?”

Tobias flinched as Feall’s sword met the Faola’s.

“You will speak when spoken to,” growled the Faola. 

“Aren’t you speaking to me now?”

“I will get the captain myself!” Roared the other Faola, he drew his sword. “You’re putting us all at risk for something we don’t even stand for!”

“There is no-,” grunted the Faola fighting Feall. He swung at him again. “There. Is. No. ‘We’!”

“This is madness!”

“This is accomplishing a goal more important than keeping the peace!”

The second Faola wasn’t convinced. “Get the captain. You two, down the main road, you two up the low, and you two up the high-”

The cloaked Faola suddenly stopped fighting Feall, and hurled himself at his fellow bandit, taking the second Faola completely by surprise.

It was entrancing. Absolutely captivating.

Feall lunged forward to attack the cloaked Faola while he was distracted. However, the Faola predicted his move, and spun out of the way, leaving Feall’s sword to clash against the second Faola. The pair exchanged several blows before Feall realized he was attacking the wrong opponent.

The cloaked Faola continued his odd dance. Always spiraling away at the last moment. Always putting himself in the crosshairs and yanking himself free before he was hit.

Mott grabbed Tobias by the wrist, and yanked him as far away from Feall and the fight as he could. Renlyn lithely stepped away, her pale hands clenched into fists. 

The Faola who’d been told to find Roden had long since ran in their appropriate directions. The others remained. 

They didn’t contribute in any form, they only stood like hooded judges watching a trio of cockroaches fighting over a crumb.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Yelled the Faola fighting beside Feall.

“On the contrary!” Retorte the other as he once again spun out of reach. “I’ve been plotting this for ages!”

Feall nearly managed to swipe at his opponent’s middle, but his sword only met open air as the Faola melted into the crowd. He instantly stood tall, looking for his missing foe. “What is his name?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” the Faola panted. “I-”

A blood curdling howl interrupted the short conversation. Tobias’s gaze was drawn to the shrieking, but all he found was that unbreakable line of Faola. 

The distraction worked all to well.

The cloaked Faola materialized out of the crowd, just behind Feall and the other Faola.

Tobias looked away as the cloaked Faola brought the hilt of his sword crashing down on the other Faola’s head, knocking him unconscious.

Feall barely managed to block a blow aimed at his neck. 

Another harsh clap of metal meeting metal shattered the air, followed by another, and another, and another. Mott held his ground, and shifted his way to best defend Tobias and Renlyn. 

It didn’t seem like Feall was trying to overpower the Faola, or at least that’s what Tobias was trying to believe. The shared blows were much too short. Feall parried each one of the Faola’s advances, and did his best to push the Faola’s blade out of his grip. 

A second Faola joined in trying to dispatch Feall, followed by a fourth.

Mott knelt before the fifth Faola, and put his hands behind his head. He then motioned for Renlyn and Tobias to do the same.

Was this really happening?

It was difficult to wrap his mind around it. They’d all been walking in a straight line to get pastries, yes, but the atmosphere changed. Tobias screwed his eyes shut. The swords hitting against each other over and over and over again pounded in his head.

Pounding, pounding, pounding.

Saints.

All he wanted was to go home.

This was only a bad dream.

Unfortunately, when Tobias cracked his eyes open, he and Mott were being guarded by a few of the Faola.

How much time had passed. 

“Keep your eyes down,” Mott muttered. “They’re not here for us.”

“How do you-, oh,” breathed Tobias.

The Faola in the patchwork cloak.

The one fighting Feall.

That had been the Faola who’d led the attack in the woods.

Oh, oh saints. 

Tobias had allowed for this to happen.

He couldn’t bear to watch as the clashing of swords grew faster, faster, faster. 

He couldn’t bear to watch because he knew that Feall had no chance fighting off three of the Faola at once. 

And it was all his fault.

Just out of the corner of his eye, Tobias could see the fight. He watched it just as he’d watched the snow falling lazily to the earth just months before. Ever so slow, ever so graceful. Sword hit sword, Feall dodged, all three Faola took a turn kicking at him. Feall tumbled to the ground. His hands and feet were pinned down. The cloaked Faola raised his sword high above his head.

They were watching an execution.

Unable to watch the scene any longer, Tobias turned his head, hoping that Renlyn would offer him the slightest shred of comfort.

But she was nowhere in sight.

All at once, everything came back to speed. 

With a roar, Mott threw all of his weight into the nearest bandit, stealing his sword in the process. Tobias frantically looked for Renlyn, for Feall, for a way out, but he saw nothing. 

Everything was rapidly filling with chaos.

The Faola, once so serene in their judgement, were fighting soldiers dressed in blue and gold. A tall man hacked through the crowd, bodies falling as he did so.

It seemed that Roden saved the day after all. 

And all Tobias could do was watch.

Watch as the Faola tried to keep a protective circle around their patched friend.

Watch as they slowly ran for the shadows.

Watch as Feall scrambled to his feet, Renlyn holding a glittering dagger not far from him. 

Watch as Roden demanded to know who was responsible, and be pointed to who was responsible.

The hood was torn off, revealing a young woman with scarlet hair. 

Words were being said, but Tobias didn’t hear them.

He’d covered his ears to block out the sounds of unnecessary deaths.

“Tell me everything you remember,” Roden said gently, leaning ever so casually against the fireplace in his office. 

Renlyn, Mott, and Tobias all sat in comfortable chairs, and each had their own mug of something warm. Feall was being looked over by the royal physician.

Tobias was still reeling from the attack. 

Still trying to put the pieces together.

They’d been walking to get pastries, passed the Vaults, nearly made it to the Dragon’s Keep, a horde of Faola appeared out of nowhere, they attacked Feall but left the others alone, and the perpetrator was arrested. 

He’d been told her name was Ayvar, and she was vehemently denying her involvement.

Clearing his throat, Mott told the story. Details fell from his mouth, but Tobias wasn’t listening.

Tobias had seen the entire scene on his own. 

Too much blood and anger in one place. 

“-there was a promise made,” Roden explained. “Jaron swore we would take care of the Faola if Feall allowed us to.”

“The attack was rushed,” Mott said. 

“I know, there’s much more Faola here than were there at the attack. I was on patrol just a few streets over, too. If they’d been planning this, they would’ve done something much more inconspil-inconsnipu- much more quietly.” 

“Is inconspicuous the word you’re looking for?” Tobias provided, his ears finally clear of the sound of flesh being sliced open.

“Ah, yes, yes it is,” a deep blush spread across Roden’s face. “It’s been a long day.”

“I agree.”

Renlyn sat straight up. “Is anybody concerned by the fact that they didn’t actually hurt us three?”

“Very much so, actually,” Mott answered.

Spin, spin, spin.

Tobias had been fascinated by several different clocks Renlyn had brought to court to sell. He loved watching how the gears had taken on different shapes. 

His mind was just like those clocks, except his gears had frozen up.

Renlyn’s observation spun them back into action.

Think, think, think!

Connect the dots Tobias!

“It doesn’t make sense!” He didn’t mean to stand up. Tobias kept his blanket draped over his shoulders, much like the philosophers of old. “There were too many of them, too many opportunities to slit our throats. I mean, we’re not the best fighters, no offense Mott, and one of the Faola was very adamant about not touching us. They didn’t use any- any- they didn’t hurt- they ah-.”

Mott’s voice brought Tobias back down to his feet. “Take a breath, it’s alright to take things slow.”

Take things slow.

Tobias began to drum his temples, “It doesn’t make sense that they’d leave us alone, but try to cut Feall’s head clean off his shoulders.”

“Beheading is punishment for treason,” Renlyn chirped. She made a face when all eyes flew to her. “What?”

“I’m only slightly concerned,” announced Roden. He was beginning to pace. “Maybe they’d been paid to kill him.”

“But there was an entire group there,” Mott pointed out, a scowl settling on his features.

“It’s quite possible that only one of them was singled out and paid,” Tobias said. “Roden, can I ask how you found out the Faola’s name?”

“I’ve met her before, in the Vaults. I didn’t think she was a killer.”

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

The dots were coming together bit by bit.

Tobias began to pace in the opposite direction of Roden. “Then maybe she was paid to do so.”

A single question lingered in the room. Mott was the one to give the question a voice. “Who would want Feall dead?”

“I’m sure several people would,” Roden answered. “I know there’s dozens of people who want me dead.”

“You grow used to it,” muttered Renlyn.

Used to people hating you so much they wanted you to die?

The prospect made Tobias frown.

He’d have to wait until he could talk things through with Amarinda. He’d be able to see and hear all the details then. 

Put them all together and listen to what Amarinda had to say.

There was more to this than just an attack on Feall.

Tobias refused to believe the attack was simply based in money.

You don’t attack a man out in the open with the captain of the guard nearby. Unless you were a fool.

No, this had to be a warning. 

A storm of blood and bone lingered on the horizon.

And it was coming all too soon.


	10. Renegade Niece

Sleep wasn’t something that Roden excelled at. He fell asleep whenever and wherever he did.

And it just so happened that this time, he’d fallen asleep with his head on his desk. 

“Rise and shine!” Bellowed an all too familiar voice, successfully bringing a wave of sound into the once silent office. 

Startled, Roden lurched backwards, his chair tipping dangerously backwards until it hit the floor, taking him with it. He shut his eyes. “Good morning Jaron.”

“There’s business to discuss, we can’t have you sleeping.”

“I know, Jaron, I know. Give me a moment, I already have a list of things I need to do.”

Although Jaron was standing at the opposite end of the room, Roden could sense his smug grin. Jaron cleared his throat. “I only wake you this early because I have to ask a favor.”

“And that is?” Roden asked, sincerely hoping it had nothing to do with waxing the hair off of his legs. Jaron had proposed that once, and every member of the king’s circle learned the importance of keeping Jaron occupied with trivial matters in addition to his political duties.

Late morning light glowed all around the room. Roden blinked several times as his head began to plant itself in the waking world. Jaron was dressed in his usual plain clothing, lucky him.

Roden wanted to scrub his teeth clean. 

He hated it when he slept in his office.

“I, ah, told Mott to take it easy today because of the events from two nights ago. He has a few reports that need to be looked over and signed.”

“How many reports are there?”

It didn’t actually matter, Roden had every intention of doing them anyways 

Jaron scoffed, “I don’t know the answer to that.”

“And when do they need to be finished?”

“Tonight, if possible.”

Roden groaned, and dragged himself to his feet, pulling a piece of paper from his forehead. “Alright, consider them done. But I won’t be able to spar today, Jaron, I have too many things to do.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jaron scratched the back of his head. He looked tired. “Feall is convinced that we have a vital playing piece in our custody, the girl who was captured the night he was attacked.”

The details from that night were still fresh in Roden’s mind. 

He went over them as often as he could, always trying to find connections. The girl who’d been taken into custody, a member of the Faola, was somebody Roden had met before. She’d been in the Vaults one night when Roden was on patrol, and allegedly she was assisting another member of her gang in saving a trio of children from a horrific fate.

She’d told him her name: Ayvar. 

Ayvar with scarlet hair who bent the rules to help other people.

It was hard to believe that somebody who would brave the Vaults would be driven to cut the head off of another human being. 

There was something not quite right about the situation.

“I can see smoke coming out of your ears, are you thinking?”

“Shut up, Jaron.”

“Definitely thinking. Be careful, it’s dangerous.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Roden pinched the bridge of his nose for a split second. “Have you received any information about Queen Danika’s representatives?”

Hesitation visibly weighed on Jaron’s every move. He finally nodded. “They’ve been combing through nearby towns, and will be here tomorrow. I suspect that they will want to interview the girl who attacked Feall.”

“I told Amarinda she was allowed to visit Ayvar if she wanted, I think she’d have more progress than a group of investigators.”

“Good move, is it wrong to say I’m curious about the results?”

“So long as nobody is hurt in the process, I think it’s fine to want to know how it all ends,” Roden gestured to the door. “I’m going to check on her if you’d like to come with me.”

“Amarinda? I don’t think she’d like to be-”

“Ayvar, I meant. I’d be responsible if something happened to her.”

Jaron stepped out of Roden’s office, and combed his hand through his unruly hair. “You think she’s innocent?”

“I try to believe everyone isn’t as bad as everyone says until it can be proven true,” Roden shrugged. He rubbed his eyes. 

The dungeons in the castle were odd, particularly because they provided a decent amount of space in each cell. Roden had seen all too many dungeons crafted out of caves and tunnels only big enough for a child. The scent of moldy food was a smell Roden would never come to appreciate. Jaron laughed at him when he stepped away from the mangy guard dog.

There was no telling what would happen if the mongrel bit him.

Roden tried not to think about how he’d die, but he certainly didn’t want his cause of death to be because of a nasty, dirty mutt.

Ayvar had been placed in the last cell. She’d braided her flaming hair around her head, likely to keep it out of the dirt. When Roden and Jaron approached, she sat straight up, her hands cradling her knees to her chest. 

“Everything been alright?” Roden asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I suppose,” Ayvar frowned. “I’d rather not be here.”

“I’d rather that you didn’t attack my friends.” Jaron’s biting tone caused her to flinch.

“You don’t really think I was stupid enough to do that, right?”

“I’ve seen plenty of people doing stupid things.”

Roden nodded in agreement. Just the other day, he’d watched Merry shove herself into a barrel and roll off of a bridge into the Roving River. He’d also seen Jaron almost get away with sledding down the grand staircase in the throne room. However, Mott had been there to save the day.

But that unfortunately didn’t stop Jaron from trying to do it again.

Ayvar scowled, “It. Wasn’t. Me.”

“But you were there,” Roden pointed out.

“I was there because I didn’t think the plan would go through!”

“So you knew there was a plan. Who thought of it, if it wasn’t you?”

“I-,” Ayvar jumped to her feet, fire blazing in her eyes. “It’s probably a false name. Goes by all sorts of nicknames, we started calling her Patches. But the arbitrator is a woman, like me.”

“I hate false names,” Jaron mused. 

“Ironic,” Roden noted. 

"You have to believe me when I say that I wasn't responsible," Ayvar's voice was rising. "I don't care what anyone else says, it wasn't my fault!"

Her voice echoed through the dungeon, and received a bark of disapproval from the guard hound.

Jaron inhaled, "If what you say is true, then we'll release you, I can promise you that."

"It is true and I'll prove it. If Harlowe won't listen to me, then I'll go to Feall. He and I fought our patched enemy together."

"I do recall you saying your patched enemy was actually your friend, at one point," Roden noted. He was still getting used to having a surname to claim. 

"That's not true anymore, otherwise I wouldn't have been left in here."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want your pity."

"Then you won't get our company either," Jaron shot back as he walked away from Ayvar's cell. 

Roden stared at Ayvar, but left before she could throw any words at him. She went back to sitting in the corner, and said nothing as footsteps rang through the quiet dungeon. 

A courtier was waiting for them halfway down the steps, and promptly dragged Jaron away to attend a meeting with King Oberson. Roden seized his chance to return to his chambers and scrub his teeth and face. 

He'd almost managed to shave when he heard the clatter of stones from the courtyard.

Through his window, Roden could see a group of pock marked boys, their sizes varying, but their intentions the same: Torment Ayvar by throwing insults and rocks into her cell.

Abandoning the razor, Roden left his chambers, tugged a doublet over his head, and prepared himself for shooing away a gaggle of bored brats. 

Too much had happened during the past few weeks. The stone-throwing boys were added to Roden's long long list of things that annoyed him.

One of the boys stood out from the rest, Jamie Todd. He'd thrown the first stone. Roden recognized him. Jamie was among the boys who were desperately hoping to somehow gain a knighthood. Hoping to mean something more. 

That wouldn't happen so long as he was throwing stones at a girl in a cell.

Was having a little bit of peace in the courtyard too much to ask?

A loud whoop erupted from the boys, one of the stones had probably found its mark. Jamie waved his arms above his head as he did an odd victory dance. They'd been clever enough to draft up a little song:

_When Daftie Ayvie passed away,  
Whadya think they done?  
Chopped her up a fishin’ bait:  
Copper for a ton! ___

__Devils have the guards on patrol who let the stones be-_ _

__A newcomer had joined the group. A girl. A head shorter than half of the boys. Much shorter than Jamie Todd, who was almost the size of Mott._ _

__Mangled hair, holes in her chemise's shoulders. Merry had come to pick a bone._ _

__"Fe-fi-fo fum!" Merry jabbed her finger at Jamie. "I smell the stink of a big boy's bum!"_ _

__"Hey!" Jamie cried, all of his attention glued to Merry._ _

__Roden should have seen it coming._ _

__Merry jabbed her elbow into Jamie's stomach, and down, down, down he went. The other boys scrambled away as Merry grabbed Jamie by the ears._ _

__"She's going to tear them clean off!"_ _

__"Get some help!"_ _

__"My ears! Don't! You'll rip them-!_ _

__"Can't help it! Your ears are wonderfully handy!" Merry taunted. "They're like mug handles!"_ _

__Roden dashed across the courtyard as Merry slammed Jamie's head into the ground, resulting in his howls echoing across the courtyard. She triumphantly demanded an apology for throwing stones at Ayvar, but none came._ _

__"Somebody help me!" Jamie bellowed, moments before Merry cracked her head against his._ _

__"See the lovely stars, Jamie!"_ _

__"She's kilt me!"_ _

__"You're going to wish you'd been kilt you mangy, slimy, son of a-!"_ _

__In Merry's hubris, she'd forgotten about pinning down Jamie's hands. He swung his fist into the side of her head. Although she wobbled, she didn't topple over._ _

__"I see a bit of brains dribbling-!" Smack! "-out of your ear!"_ _

__"Get off of me! Help! She's kilt me!"_ _

__"Pity your mother didn't cook you longer," Merry snipped, prepping to bash Jamie's head into the cobblestones again._ _

__Roden finally managed to wedge his arms between Merry and Jamie, while Lieutenant Alistair picked up Merry by the waist, and dragged her off of Jamie. Roden nodded his thanks as Merry cursed and kicked and Jaimie wept as he covered his ears. He was convinced that his brain was bleeding out from his nose._ _

__"I'll take care of the kids," Roden noted, motioning to the large fountain in the middle of the courtyard._ _

__"Yes sir!" Alistair boomed as he somehow managed to keep Merry from escaping to beat the other boys as well._ _

__"Stand up," said Roden as he let go of Jaimie. He then instructed him to follow his finger as he moved it back and forth in front of Jamie's eyes._ _

__He wasn't sure how rattled Jamie's brains were._ _

__"I'm kilt," he wailed. "I'm a member of the undead. I’ll never be a knight now!"_ _

__"Not quite, but I hope you've learned something."_ _

__"I learned that I hate girls!"_ _

__"You'll have a lonely life then, I suppose. Don't throw stones at people worse off than you Jamie, it's not what a knight would do."_ _

__Jamie wiped his nose, which had finally stopped bleeding. "I'm- I'm sorry we were- we were just bored."_ _

__"Don't apologize to me. You have my permission to be inspected by the castle physician. I'll have my lieutenant escort you."_ _

__If he hadn't just been smacked around, Roden was certain Jamie would've fallen to his knees with gratitude. Speaking to the captain of the guard and being around Sir Alistair Derforgall in one day? It was any aspiring soldier's dream._ _

__Roden had been in those shoes once. Idolizing Carthya's heroes._ _

__But you couldn't be a hero and throw stones at prisoners in cells._ _

__Alistair had seated Merry on the edge of the fountain. She crossed her arms. “I’m too angry to give a genuine apology right now, but I do feel bad, so I’m sorry. Give me a few hours before I have to say it to Jamie. I don’t like giving empty apologies.”_ _

__“Weren’t you just telling me about being safe while throwing a punch?” Roden asked._ _

__“That’s because I’d- gah, don’t remind me.”_ _

__“Aren’t you supposed to be at the Dragon’s Keep?”_ _

__“Ayvar is my friend, I came to check on her,” Merry shrugged. “Dawn gave me twenty minutes, but I’ve used up that time in, ah, not very smart ways. Did you forget to shave?”  
Roden held completely still as Merry trailed both of her fingers across his stubbled face. “I was in a hurry.”_ _

__“I kind of like it.”_ _

__“Really?”_ _

__“I mean, I just like you, shaved or unshaved.”_ _

__“You’re a grisly sight. Best mop you up before you return,” he grinned. Roden then pointed to his left eyebrow, where a long, thin scar started just above his eyebrow and dipped down to the top of his cheekbone. “I’ve had a few head wounds myself.”_ _

__A smile tugged at Merry’s mouth, and she visibly tried to fight it with a frown. “I suppose we’ll match.”_ _

__“We’ll have to see.”_ _

__“There’s no point to life if I don’t have a scar that makes people wonder if I’m secretly a pirate.”_ _

__“Are you secretly a pirate?” Roden pulled a spare handkerchief from his doublet pocket, “I suppose it’s my turn to clean you up, would you prefer your own spit or fountain water?”_ _

__“I’d prefer your spit, actually.”_ _

__“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t say that.”_ _

__“Because it makes you uncomfortable?”_ _

__“Quite the contrary, I think there’s a better way to exchange spit than-,” Roden cleared his throat. “I take that back. It does make me uncomfortable.”_ _

__It seemed that Merry was uncomfortable too. Her face had gone redder than the blood dripping from the cut on her forehead. “I’ll take water. It’s, ah, really warm.”_ _

__She was right, the summer morning sun was beating down on the two of them. Roden cupped the unbloodied side of her face as gingerly as he could. He wet the cloth, knelt on the ground in front of her, and forced himself not to grin as he began wiping the blood off of her forehead._ _

__The frown faltered._ _

__“So,” Merry said._ _

__It wasn’t exactly a question, it was more of an invitation. There was no obligation for Roden to say anything if he wanted to. He was allowed to speak about anything that he chose to do. He could talk about the situation with Ayvar. He could talk about how his niece, Nila, wanted to have a picnic for her tenth birthday and that he didn’t know what to get her. He could talk about how he’d begun to see his childhood friend’s death in his dreams._ _

__How he feared that there was something hiding in plain sight._ _

__Something awful._ _

__She was giving him a choice._ _

__And that made him want to tell her everything._ _

__“I have extra reports I need to file tonight,” Roden said as he wet a new portion of his handkerchief. “But I’ve spent too much time in my office. Makes me lonely.”_ _

__“Don’t your friends pay attention to you?” Merry arched her unbloodied eyebrow._ _

__He shrugged, “From time to time. They don’t tell me colorful stories about fish hitting my face.”_ _

__That made her smile._ _

__“By the way, I never thanked you for the coin you gave me. Where’s it from? I don’t recognize the design.”_ _

__“It’s from my home, but it’s not accepted here. Figured I’d give you a trinket. Have you considered getting a pet mountain cat to keep you company?”_ _

__“Unfortunately, the royal mountain cat keeper is fresh out of them.”_ _

__Merry’s eyes drifted shut, and Roden did his best not to think of the way her body relaxed as he continued supporting her. “Why not come to the Dragon’s Keep? It’s the slowest day of the week, I can help you. I can even promise extra lemon cream tarts.”_ _

__“Would I have to share?”_ _

__“With me, of course.”_ _

__“Promises you’ll make sure it’s a fair share?”_ _

__Merry pressed a bruised hand to her heart, “I never lie, Captain Harlowe.”_ _

__He hoped she didn’t see his ears beginning to burn. Roden managed to clear away the drying blood on Merry’s face, and ordered the nearest page to get strips of gauze. “I, ah, I’m going to make sure the wound doesn’t bleed through. Is that alright?”_ _

__“I only ask that you make me look as much like a plague victim as possible,” Merry was fiddling with her hands._ _

__“I’ll see what I can do.”_ _

__To his surprise, when Roden drew away from Merry’s face, she pressed his hand back into place. “No wait, I’m hoping I can siphon away your extreme battle abilities.”_ _

__“Not quite sure how true that is.”_ _

__“I told you before, I don’t lie.”_ _

__“Not quite sure how true that is either.”_ _

__Once again, her face flushed bright red. Merry shoved his hand away, “Thanks, ah, uh, thanks for helping me.”_ _

__“It’s only fair.” Roden scratched the back of his neck.The page returned with a small roll of gauze. Roden began setting strips of it on the horizontal gash on Merry’s forehead. “You should probably come up with a story about why you look like a plague victim.”_ _

__“I’m thinking that I had three eyes at one point, but I tragically lost my third eye while hunting for a golden potato.”_ _

__“Not quite what I was expecting, but I’ll take it. Is there more to it?”_ _

__“Do you like hearing me talk, Captain?”_ _

__“I’ve told you it’s alright to call me by my name,” Roden said, deftly avoiding her question._ _

__She patted the side of his face, “Captain, my friend, at one point I had a third eye, and it helped me see into the ground. I could find all sorts of buried treasure, making me the most valued person in the Eranbole sea. . .”_ _

__Words of third eyes and buried treasure fell short on Roden’s ears. As Merry continued weaving her grand story about pirates and sea monsters, his gaze fell on a curious mark on her bare shoulder._ _

__A jagged scar._ _

__As he finished setting the last piece of gauze on Merry’s cut, he found himself brushing his thumb over the scar, wondering where it came from._ _

__Scars carried stories, whether good or bad._ _

__What had Merry done to get a scar on her shoulder? There were others near it, many of them were hiding underneath her printed chemise. Marks of the past. All pale and pink against her skin._ _

__Merry went completely silent, and Roden flinched once he realized what he’d done._ _

__Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look._ _

__Devils have him. Roden looked right at Merry’s crimson face, stared right at those mausoleum grey eyes._ _

__Don’t be the first to look away, don’t be the first to look away-_ _

__Suddenly the cobblestones became very interesting._ _

__“I, ah, I’m-,” she stuttered, both of her hands going to tug on her earlobes._ _

__Roden all but jumped to his feet, “I have to go now.”_ _

__“I don’t think so, I’m not quite finished with our conversation.”_ _

__Roden rubbed the back of his neck, desperate to be away from his mistake._ _

__But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away._ _

__“Treat me like a princess, Roden, please,” Merry said, bouncing back from the awkward moment. She held out her hand, palm down, expectant._ _

__A series of scars were visible on her third and fourth fingers, just below the nails. Roden forced himself not to look too long, and took Merry by the hand, “My apologies, lady.”_ _

__In a grand motion, Merry waved her hand across the open air, “No apologies are needed sir knight. You’ll find I am quite spotted all over, and not from freckles.”_ _

__“I’m really sorry if-,” He began, but Merry was one step ahead of him._ _

__“No, no, don’t be sorry, it’s really alright. I got that scar as a child. My favorite method of travel was jumping rock to rock, and I missed my target once.”_ _

__“I’m sure all toads everywhere envied your skill.”_ _

__“Oh they did, trust me, they did. I’d ah, I’d tell you more . . But you’ll have to forgive me for leaving so soon, Dawn’s going to have my head if I’m late.”_ _

__He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t like watching her leave._ _

__

__\------------------------------------_ _

__

__Nila sat on his desk, swinging her legs. Her long golden hair had been pinned on her head, and yet despite the obvious effort that had been put into it, several strands had managed to escape. Dirt stains pooled at her elbows._ _

__She was doing a wondrous job holding a stack of papers for Roden._ _

__“I found a cool feather today, but I dropped it in the river,” Nila mused, a slight frown appearing on her rosy face. “It had stripes.”_ _

__“A striped feather, you say?” Roden made a face._ _

__“Black and white, I thought it would look cool as a mast for a stick ship, but I got so excited about it, I dropped it.”_ _

__“Then I’ll have to help you find another one.”_ _

__Nila tapped her boot heel against the desk, “I’m free on every second day of the week, but only in the afternoons. I can fit you into my schedule.”_ _

__“You have a schedule now, do you?” He caught himself chuckling. “I would gladly take any available time that I can.”_ _

__Everywhere, there were reports hiding. Roden managed to gather all of Mott’s reports, but unfortunately, had managed to lose track of half of his own. He pawed through every drawer he could, every shelf and cabinet._ _

__If it weren’t for Nila keeping track of what had been found and what hadn’t, he would’ve wasted much more time._ _

__How could he let himself get so disorganized?_ _

__Roden ran his hands through his hair, “I think that’s all we’re going to find.”_ _

__“I can take a turn looking,” Nila offered. She grinned, a pair of dimples making their appearance. “You’ve obviously got something else on your mind.”_ _

__“I don’t- I, ah, everything’s under control.”_ _

__Although everything didn’t really feel like it was under control. Roden once again ran his hands through his hair, thinking of anything he might’ve missed. Several hours had passed since he’d last seen Merry. It wouldn’t be long before sunset._ _

__“Are you meeting somebody?” Asked Nila, her boot beating out a new rhythm. “Are you going on patrol again?”_ _

__“No, no,” Roden said, walking from his desk to the door. “I mean, yes, I’m going to be with a friend of mine. No patrolling for me though, that’s tomorrow night.”_ _

__“That’s interesting. Much more interesting than my evening, anyway.”_ _

__“I thought you had a busy schedule, sounds pretty exciting to me.”_ _

__“Being busy doesn’t mean I’m having fun. Where are you going?”_ _

__“Sounds like you’re planning on trying to come with me. . .”_ _

__Nila frowned as deeply as she could. “I’m just asking!”_ _

__As he paced back and forth, Roden smiled. He was walking to the beat of Nila’s boot hitting the desk. That drew a grin out of her once he mentioned it to her._ _

__He loved being with Nila. She was charming and bursting with life, and made his day a little bit brighter. In time, he saw her as more of a little sister than a niece._ _

__There were many things Roden would always regret._ _

__Things like never knowing his dead brother; Nila’s father._ _

__Too many opportunities had been lost, and Roden was determined not to lose any more precious moments. He’d been cheated out of years and years of memories._ _

__It was time to make new ones._ _

__But he wasn’t sure if taking a ten year old girl to a tavern was one of them._ _

__“Please, please, please, please, please take me with you,” Nila begged. “I don’t want to have to take tea with Lady Orlaine’s whatever they are.”_ _

__“Lady Orlaine’s wards?” Roden offered._ _

__“Yes! Them! They’re mean to me, dreadfully boring too. I call them the Greys. Because they make everything grey around them, get it?”_ _

__Roden took the numerous papers from Nila and shoved them into a satchel. He’d have to depend on Merry for ink, he didn’t trust himself not to spill any as he walked across Drylliad._ _

__He wouldn’t be able to know if the Dragon’s Keep was truly empty until he got there, and he’d rather not risk taking Nila to a place not quite appropriate for a child._ _

__She took the rejection well, however, Roden wished he’d been able to bring her with him._ _

__The regret was even worse the moment Roden stepped into the Dragon's Keep, only to find that it was as empty as Merry claimed it was._ _

__Aside from the old man strumming a lute in the corner, the only sound was a ghost of a conversation from the back._ _

__Dawn was behind the counter, her grey streaked hair piled into a bun on top of her head.  
Another barmaid was sitting in the corner beside a young man. No sign of Merry._ _

__"Captain! It's nice to see you!" Dawn called, waving her cloth in greeting._ _

__"It's nice to be here," Roden countered with a smile._ _

__She turned around, and retrieved a large tankard, "Are you looking for a drink?"_ _

__"Oh! No, no, I'm looking for a person, actually. It's Merry, actually, she wanted to talk."_ _

__"I'm sure she did, I'm sure she did. Merry! It's rude to keep a guest waiting!"_ _

__The conversation grew louder, louder, louder, until finally, Merry came strutting out. She’d changed her chemise, this one was green and hid her scarred shoulder. A patterned scarf rested neatly over her hair and behind her ears._ _

__She pointed at the mass of gauze on her head, “Still in one piece!”_ _

__“I’m not surprised, you can hold your own,” Roden grinned. Now comfortable, he set his paper filled satchel on the wooden countertop, and perched on a tall stool._ _

__“You should see her fight a door, it’s quite frightening,” teased Dawn._ _

__“They are the bane of my existence.” Merry stared hard at the front door, and shook her fist at it before bursting into a series of snickers.  
“A truly noble quest.”_ _

__Merry snatched a used tankard, and began scrubbing at the insides. Her smile faltered, “How’s Jamie Todd?”_ _

__“He’s alright, just a little concerned that he was caught throwing stones at a person.”_ _

__“Good, that’s good. You sure he’s fine?”_ _

__“Saw him myself a few hours ago,” Roden said. He retrieved a few reports, and set them on the counter. “Do you have-?”_ _

__“Ink? Right here,” Merry reached below the counter. “And we have a variety of writing tools to choose from too.”_ _

__“Don’t use the quill!” Dawn ordered from the other end of the bar. The door opened and closed. “Take care of that guest!”_ _

__The glass Merry had been scrubbing at clinked against the counter. Her brows screwed together, “I’ll take care of it.”_ _

__“What are you-,” Roden began, but Merry snapped her fingers near his face. He brushed her hands away, “I know, I know, I need to get my work done.”_ _

__“I’ll check back in on you in a moment, have that other guest to see,” Merry leaned over the bar, and smoothed her hand over Roden’s head._ _

__He glared at the first report waiting to be finished. Check the details. Signature here, signature there. Next report. Check the details. Signature here, signature there, and so on and so forth. He caught a few snippets from Merry’s conversation with the new guest._ _

__Something about lemon cream tarts._ _

__Saints, he really wanted one of-_ _

__No! He had to do a report first!_ _

__Report first, tart later!_ _

__Merry set a hand on his shoulder, “Your handwriting.”_ _

__“I know, I know, it’s messy,” Roden shrugged._ _

__“I was going to say that I like it, sir knight.”_ _

__Oh._ _

__She disappeared behind the bar, reappearing moments later with a lemon cream tart in each hand. Roden received his first, much to his delight, and technically, he did manage to finish two reports._ _

__He deserved a tart._ _

__“-I completely understand! Court life is horrifically boring,” Merry said, her voice barely audible above the lute strings._ _

__“I’m glad somebody gets it!” Chirped the guest, their voice oddly familiar._ _

__But not familiar enough to draw his attention away from his blasted reports._ _

__The lemon cream tart made it easier to bear._ _

__Snippets of the conversation still drifted into Roden’s atmosphere. Merry laughed, “And is there anything else I can get you?”_ _

__“No thank you, but I do appreciate that you asked me,” came the reply._ _

__And then Merry’s hand was back on his shoulder, asking him if there was anything she could do to help. Unless she was good at forgery, there wasn’t much she could do._ _

__Roden scribbled through report after report, firmly aware that Merry was watching his every move._ _

__He managed to finish the tart just as he finished his first pile of reports._ _

__“And onto the next one,” Roden mumbled._ _

__“Ah, ah, ah, take a tiny break, Captain,” Merry chided. She set her hands on Roden’s, “One stack is worth a victory celebration.”_ _

__“Do I get another tart?”_ _

__“Possibly, unless you’d prefer a pie.”_ _

__Pies were good, when baked properly._ _

__Merry’s hands were cool on his palms._ _

__Cool on his battle torn hands._ _

__They fit too well in his own. A little too nicely. It was impossible to timidly turn his palms up, impossible not to hold Merry’s rough fingers._ _

__He supposed he preferred that to a tart._ _

__And a pie._ _

__“Why are you holding hands with him?” Asked the other guest from right behind Roden._ _

__He jumped, his eyes flying to the voice’s owner._ _

__Only to find Nila with a little bit of lemon cream still on her top lip._ _

__“Oh, uh, because-,” Merry stuttered, however, Roden had a better prepared retort._ _

__“What are you doing here?”_ _

__Nila shrugged, “I was bored, so I followed you.”_ _

__“And you saw her come in, but didn’t tell me?” Roden asked, turning his attention to Merry._ _

__She made a face, and clasped her hands behind her back. “I only did what I was told.”_ _

__“I wanted to surprise you, mostly so I could prove that it’s perfectly acceptable for me to go with you to things,” Nila pointed out. She clambered onto the stool beside Roden. “And I’m very helpful. I can read through your reports. All you’d have to do is sign.”_ _

__“Doesn’t mean you’d understand what’s going on,” noted Roden._ _

__“That’s not important, all that matters is that everything is spelled correctly.”_ _

__Merry nodded, “She does have a point.”_ _

__A smile spread across his face, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t be rid of it, but he did manage to contain it to a slight smirk._ _

__He handed a stack of papers to Nila._ _

__Every so often, Roden glanced up to make sure Merry was still near, and watched as she cleaned tankard after tankard._ _

__She beamed at him each time she caught him looking._ _

__And all he could think about was the way her cool hands felt when they rested on his own._ _


	11. Playing a Game, Solving a Puzzle

“That’s Falstan Stead, Cornwick, and Riverfront,” Amarinda sighed, crossing three town names off her list. She stretched out her gloved hands. “That’s everything, aside from Drylliad.”

Tobias tipped his canteen towards his hand, and wiped water across his forehead, “I’d be willing to go with you to Tithio if that’s what you wanted.”

A tempting offer, but Amarinda shook her head.

A gusty breeze whisked through her horse’s mane, the trees and their rustling leaves seemed to agree with her thoughts.

The scent of horse and her own unwashed body added to her frustration. 

Come to think of it, her frustration was a large, decorative cake. The kind of cake with lines and lines of spun sugar, and tiers and tiers of cake itself. With each inconvenience, Amarinda was quietly adding a decoration to her frustration creation.

Oh how she longed to be rid of it; the cake had become extremely distasteful early on.

Fatigue was threatening to overtake her.

It was time.

It was time to return to Drylliad. Time for a hot bath, something with cream, and a few minutes of frustrated emotional release. She’d be prepared to handle all other situations after that.

Time to throw away her gaudy frustration cake.

Her riding boots became a little too tight the moment she thought about being able to take them off and walk through the castle lawns.

She’d ridden out with Queen Danika’s seven investigators two days before, and Tobias went with her without hesitation.

Together, they’d combed through every village within a reasonable radius of Drylliad, asking if they’d seen anyone fitting the predicted description of any surviving Thay member.

They heard a wide variety of rumors, but only one of them had enough credibility to almost be true.

Supposedly, Graer Thay had gathered an army, and he was somewhere in Carthya looking for his daughter too.

Too many theories cluttered Amarinda’s head. She prided herself on being perfectly organized, but without a clear path, she’d fallen into disarray. Tobias made her write everything down at one point. It helped, in a way. Having everything out in the open made thinking much easier.

Amarinda spent hours pouring over her decision. Though she’d come to Carthya at a tender age, she still had memories of Bymar. Still remembered learning how to fence with her cousin, Princess Eline, and Eline’s ladies-in-waiting.

Mireldis Thay was one of them.

Too much time had passed since Amarinda last saw Mireldis, she doubted she would recognize her.

The Thays were ghosts.

Rumors people clung to, a scapegoat the sixteen other noble houses dragged around to put their faults on. 

A pin was coming loose from Amarinda’s hair. She shoved it back in, but to no avail; the pin only shifted. 

Everything was much more enticing than admitting that they’d gone on a wild goose chase. Amarinda studied the patterns on her riding skirts. Studied the creases in her tan gloves. Studied the well kept road that would take her and her party back to the castle.

She’d stepped out on the stage, sang her magnificent aria, and took her final bow. The final encore was playing, it was time to face the music.

“I think it’s time to admit that we’re just chasing ghosts,” murmured Amarinda.

“Sounds like you’re saying Thay are ghosts,” Tobias grinned, eventually breaking into a stifled chuckle.

She couldn’t prevent her own smile. “That was clever.”

“I don’t like seeing you defeated, figured you needed a pick-me-up.”

His ability to notice her distress was comforting in a way. He was too good at making her understand that she was safe with him. “And what about you, Tobias? Are you in need of a pick-me-up?” 

“You’re my pick-me-up, darling.”

“If you’re not careful, my blush will match my skirts.”

“I do like seeing you in that color.”

Amarinda shook her head, a laugh falling from her lips. She welcomed the play on words. She appreciated Tobias’s attempts to keep her happy.

But she was wasting time.

Even if the Thays were alive, they didn’t want to be found.

Who was she to take that from them?

The investigators, a little too slouched in their Bymarian uniforms, were waiting farther up the road. Their horses pawed the ground. Not one person called out a greeting. 

Amarinda couldn’t blame them.

They were supposed to be scouring the countryside with Feall, not her.

However, she knew her value, and she still deserved to be treated with respect. The hairs on the back of her neck began to rise despite the sun shining on her back.

“Was anything found?” Amarinda asked, guiding her horse to the front of the group. 

One of the investigators, a tall woman with pitch black hair, shook her head. “Thay must have known we were coming for her. I’m afraid she might have fled the area.”

“I would’ve fled the country,” muttered Tobias.

Which was probably what Mireldis Thay did, if she was alive. Amarinda was learning that she was ready to let the dead remain at peace. It wasn’t fair to drag memories through the mud.

“I would like a combined report from all of you that I can look over,” ordered Amarinda as she motioned for the investigators to follow her lead. “It seems our quest has failed.”

“We did make really good friendships,” Tobias argued, gesturing to the scowling investigators behind him.

His quiet humor really did manage to bring a lightness to any situation.

“You know, I think it would do good if you spoke to that young woman, Ayvar,” he mused.

“I know, I know. I wanted to participate in the investigation myself before I spoke to anyone. I was hoping we’d find Thay. Too many people are all too willing to impersonate royalty when given the chance.”

Tobias shrugged, “I can’t correct you there, and I’ve been in a similar situation.”

“That was insensitive, I’m-”

“Oh, don’t apologize, it was completely out of your control. Your statement is correct, and I wanted to attest to that. There was an opportunity to impersonate a missing person of power, Jaron, and many people seized that chance.”

“Conner’s gamble played out in Jaron’s favor,” Amarinda wrinkled her nose.

She hated admitting that her mind moved too quickly, hated admitting that sometimes she brought up old memories completely by accident.

Hated that she still said foolish things despite her training.

Hated that she inadvertently made connections. 

Patterns were easy to her. She recognized patterns in history, and did her best to incorporate them into the present. Sometimes, Amarinda felt her head split into two sides. 

One side was completely dedicated to her friends and family.

The other side was bent on finding every correlation imaginable.

It had taken years of practice to avoid bringing up Darius in a roundabout way in front of Jaron.

And she was still practicing the art of tenderly respecting the horrible game Bevin Conner forced her husband and two dear friends into.

“Now that you bring that up,” Tobias tilted his head. “I can see your concern. Why you would avoid bringing it up around Ayvar.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Oberson was involved somehow.”

“How so?”

How? 

So many, many, many ways to usurp a kingdom-state, especially when there was already a family name taking all of the blame.

Bloody ways, stealthy ways, peaceful ways.

Too many ideas. Amarinda had to pick one. “Maybe he’s trying to put a puppet princess on the throne of Idunn Craich, marry her, kill her, and take the land. He’d be king over two kingdom states, it would be easy for him to lead an uprising against Queen Danika and King Norman.”

“Do you think Oberson is really capable of that?”

A direct reference to Oberson’s obvious disdain for physical activity.

People were both predictable and unpredictable all at once. Watching a grown adult behave in a position of power was almost the same as watching a toddler be left in a room with sweets.

“Not exactly, but it is a start. It’s also a coincidence that he’s here in Carthya, don’t you think?” Amarinda rolled her shoulders. “I’m excited to sleep in a real bed again.”

“Ah, I see where you’re coming from, spreading rumors about how much he fears the bloodthirsty Mireldis Thay and then lift her up to become his bride. It would make quite the romantic ballad. A disgusting one at that.”

“Hardly romantic to force a young woman to marry a man the same age as her grandfather.”

“Which makes Oberson’s theoretical plan all the more despicable.”

Amarinda’s skin was crawling. “We’ll put that on the extreme end. I shouldn’t even be judging him.”

“True,” Tobias nodded. “But you also know Bymarian politics better than anyone I’ve ever met, including King Oberson and Lord Feall.”

Warmth spread through her ribs. Spread through the entirety of her body, and burst out through a smile. "You're getting quite good at the game too, you know."

"I do try," Tobias chuckled. His dark hair was flopping across his eyes. "I still think you should speak with Ayvar. I know I will, but it won't be anything about politics. Or at least state politics, more along the lines of, and I can't believe I'm saying this, criminal politics. This is much more Roden's expertise than mine."

"Roden's got a lot on his plate at the moment, you're a good friend to help him out."

"Anything to keep him out of the alehouse. I haven't had to prescribe any tonics for him in almost four weeks!"

"That has to be a lie," teased Amarinda, but deep within her heart of hearts, she was happy to hear the news.

It wasn't her place to instruct a person's life.

But it was her place as a friend to be concerned.

A pair of pink roses bloomed on Tobias's pale face. "No, no, I'm being completely serious. And same with Jaron, as well, he's been doing much better now that he has multiple puzzles to play with. Although I suspect that he may have an allergy pertaining to, ah, Imogen's new feline friend."

"And what can we do about that?"

"Not much, except get rid of the cat," Tobias steepled his fingers, and tapped them against his nose. 

The little gesture was all too recognizable. Amarinda pointed to her head, "Have you got a brilliant idea for me, love?"

"I do, actually. Oberson is the cat, and you are Jaron-"

"Hopefully I don't look like Jaron."

"-you're absolutely stunning, and if Jaron were a woman, he'd wish he looked like you, but I have a different point. Oberson is the cat, you are Jaron, who is quite possibly allergic to cats. You're allergic to Oberson.

"Think about it, Ami, we didn't have the Faola to worry about before Oberson arrived. Mireldis Thay was resting in an unmarked grave. Oberson is the one we should be worried about. Nobody ever suspects the older man with a-," Tobias arched backwards, and rounded his hand over his stomach. "I think there's more than what we see. A lot more."

"You're right, you're very right," Amarinda shoved her loose hair pin back into place. "I pride myself on locating similarities but I can't do it right now."

"In your defense, you're a part of the puzzle, not the person putting the puzzle together."

"Thank you, I think?"

As odd as his words were, Tobias's analogy made sense. 

If Amarinda was a part of the puzzle, it would be much harder to see the grand picture. Even then, there would still be parts of the puzzle missing, as she doubted the puzzle was put together. The whole ordeal was making her head spin.

Making her head spin with no apparent direction.

Plans were essential. Jaron would argue that point at every turn, despite having plans already twirling around in his head. Things rarely ever worked out in the way people hoped, but plans provided stability.

There was typically an outcome various parties hoped for.

Not anymore. There was no grand ending to plan for.

No end goal.

There was no end goal to even think about.

Was it even there?

Was the end goal not something Amarinda could grasp?

That made her stomach tilt. It was dangerous, keeping harmful secrets. She was beginning to realize that maybe she was being stared in the face by an enemy she’d talked with before.

Perhaps they knew what the end goal was. 

Aware of her scowl, Amarinda forced her face to relax. The birds were singing despite the rising heat. Everything was bursting with life, with the promise for a bright, wonderful day.

She clung to that promise. 

“Tobias?” Amarinda asked, urging her horse to go just a little bit faster.

He followed suit. “Yes?”

Large stones marked the road, pointing the way to Drylliad for weary travellers. Dozens and dozens of people walked in lines towards the city. 

At their head was a large man riding an even larger golden horse. He waved a greeting, and soon turned his attention back to the lines of people. 

“I just want you to know that I love you.”

“Have you done something wrong?”

“Why is that the question you ask me?”

“Jaron tells me that he loves me each time he does something he knows I’d get mad about.”

Amarinda’s polite giggle soon turned into a struggle to keep herself from snorting. It made sense, as she’d seen Jaron walk up to Tobias covered in chicken feathers with a declaration of love on his lips. Her battle to contain her ungraceful laugh failed.

“No, no!” Laughed Amarinda, her eyes welling up. She was painfully aware of how her giggles were gaining pitch with each escaped sound. “I just- I just wanted to tell you!”

“I love you too, darling, and I haven’t done anything wrong either,” Tobias’s chuckles were far more contained.

It wasn’t quite fair, Tobias’s perfect laugh.

He was her best friend above everyone else.

Which was why it was so painful to know how close he’d come to harm because of that girl who’d attacked Feall. 

So painful to know that no matter how hard Amarinda tried, there would always be something she couldn’t control. Something that would come hurtling toward her, and only damage Tobias in the process.

\--------------------------------

Her skin had been scrubbed of dirt, sweat, and its own top layer. Made her skin smart, of course, but it was better than walking around in a disgusting travel gown with sticky hair.

And it was definitely better than being trapped in a large meeting room, flanked by virtual strangers.

Amarinda tucked her hair behind her ears. Lines and lines and lines of words were beginning to blur into the same excuse. 

Tobias sat to her right, holding eerily still. The investigators sent from Bymar to find any living member of House Thay were seated at the same table. Each one of them bore the same black hair and the same royal uniform of blue and white. Not one person said a word as Amarinda read through their report. 

“You didn’t find anyone,” Amarinda sat as tall as she could. “In all of your findings, you found no trace of Mireldis Thay or her father.”

“I’m sorry, Ambassador, we searched as well as we could,” said one of the investigators, a tall man with his hair tied back. The pins on his shoulder distinguished him from the others. He was of higher rank.

“I understand, it’s difficult searching for people who’ve grown used to keeping their names hidden. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mireldis wasn’t even here.”

A clatter of opinions burst from the investigators, all of whom were trying to argue that Lady Thay was most definitely in Carthya.

“Did you take a chance to visit the girl who allegedly attacked Feall?” Tobias murmured, he’d reached for Amarinda’s hand beneath the table.

They’d only just gotten back from their travels. Or at least that was the excuse Amarinda had drafted up during her long break before the meeting.

His grip helped her stay firmly planted. Amarinda sighed, “I-, no. I haven’t, I’m afraid of going. . .”

“And seeing the wrong girl there?”

“I’m more afraid of finding the right girl, Tobias. The Thays were good friends to Danika, they were there when I left Bymar for the first and last time.”

“Queen Danika is pushing for their pardon. Or at least that’s what I’ve been able to gather,” Tobias muttered, his eyes glued on Amarinda’s face.

“That’s what’s been said, but there’s no telling how true that is. King Oberson, he, ah, he’s terrified of Mireldis Thay, and it’s very likely that everyone else shares that view. I’ve sent a letter to Queen Danika to prove that she sanctioned this, but haven’t received anything in return.”

The arguing grew louder and louder, much unlike what Amarinda expected from Danika’s representatives. Her aunt ran a strict court, and had no time for gossiping in her presence. 

Perhaps the investigators who’d been sent weren’t even members of Danika’s court.

It wouldn’t be shocking if that was true. 

In silence, Amarinda and Tobias watched the men and women rise to their feet as they began to yell at each other.

“I know Thay is here! She’s going to slit our throats in our sleep!”

“And how do we know you’re not Mireldis Thay?”

“Because you were with me on that-!”

“You’re fools! All of you!”

Dots were appearing. Dots that needed to be connected. Amarinda shut her eyes for a moment, remembering the days of her childhood when she’d visit Drylliad. When she and Darius were calmly discussing the matters of whether or not fruit teas were legitimate, and he’d begin to fidget. 

Just like his brother.

Darius would flick ink all over a piece of parchment, and then begin to connect dots until he’d made a picture. 

He could do that no matter how dispersed the dots were.

Saints, Amarinda needed that ability.

She needed to connect these seemingly unrelated dots.

Oberson’s arrival, the rise of the Faola, the rude investigators Danika had sent, the sudden rise of interest in a young woman who’d vanished four years ago.

But how?

“I want to go. I want to go see her right now,” Amarinda decided. 

She was choosing to pursue the more likely lead.

Choosing to connect the dots.

Besides, she’d been riding with the investigators all day, she knew what they’d seen.

Amarinda stood tall, Tobias standing ever so slightly behind her. She clasped her hands, “Noble lords, ladies, I appreciate what we’ve done and your efforts. I do believe that our search was thorough despite not finding what we wanted. Please leave your reports here so I can read them. As of now, you are free to return to Bymar.”

“With all due respect, Ambassador-.”

“There will be absolutely no arguing on my decision. My word is final, good sir.”

The silence that followed as she left the room had the power to choke a horse. 

Think, Amarinda! Think!

Dots, dots, dots. Put them into boxes. She needed to put them into boxes, organize them by size, frequency, and their first appearance.

Tobias padded along beside her, his hands clasped behind his back as the pair of them began the long descent to Drylliad's dungeon. No words needed to be said.

Amarinda was facing her fears, and deep down, she knew that she would find at least one piece of information before the afternoon was through.

King Oberson, a lesser king from Bymar. Amarinda had met him before while she was a child. She remembered him as being large, kind, and a little afraid. He brought presents to certain children in the court, but always kept his gift giving a secret. Pleasing others was always his priority.

Now Feall. 

Feall was unpredictable, Amarinda had barely known him, as he'd risen to power just as she was fully embracing her role as Carthya's future queen. But she'd written to Danika and Danika's daughter, Eline, all about him. 

He was a kind man with a strict outline for order. 

He was one of the brave cavalry members who'd come to Carthya's aid during the Avenian war. 

His presence with Oberson wasn't unexpected. Feall was a noble, yes, but not a king. He provided safety to those who sought it. 

However, Feall and Oberson's involvement with Danika's investigators was enough to raise alarms. Amarinda didn't want to confess out loud how much she'd disliked their company.

She was supposed to be kind. 

If it weren't for Tobias's steady hand, Amarinda would've walked into a stone wall. He continued his silence as he guided her down the grand staircase. 

Then came the matter of Mireldis Thay.

Mireldis, daughter of Graer Thay, a man who'd earned the title of vagabond with his frequent travels. The Thays had been dear friends of the crown for generations following a marriage of two people from years and years ago. Their loyalties ran deep enough that the Thays frequently provided their children to pose as decoys for the crown's heirs. 

Amarinda had known Mireldis.

They'd played together with imported dolls, fabricating elaborate stories that rivaled the dramas of court. 

It had taken much on Amarinda's part to finally figure out what happened.

She could still remember the night that she read Eline's letter, explaining that the Thays knew about Avenia's plan to ravage Carthya, but didn't say a single word to Danika. 

The Thay's kingdom-state was pillaged while Danika's soldiers were in Carthya.

The entire castle had been gutted, members of the family butchered, save for Graer's wife. She managed to rebuild as much as she could.

Rumors spoke that she'd kept Mireldis alive, but when Danika came to find out the truth for herself, she'd been informed that Mireldis died; murdered by those who hated her family. 

Grief didn't pick and choose the people it affected. 

Amarinda hadn't seen Mireldis in more than a decade, but her heart still broke. 

Her heart broke that night knowing that there was no proof of what had actually taken place that merited the slaughter of a family.

The torches guiding the way down to the dungeon flickered. A shiver ran down her spine, and she gladly took Tobias’s hand when he offered it.

Four guards had been posted at the outmost door. Only one spoke, asking minimal questions before letting both Amarinda and Tobias in.

Sunlight poured into the dungeons in patched gaps. Several of the prisoners inside only moved their heads as Amarinda and Tobias reached the bottom step.

A figure was already standing outside of the last prison cell.

The cell belonging to the supposed Mireldis Thay.

Heart in her throat, Amarinda forced herself to step forward. What would she say if it was Mireldis?

How could she apologize for the atrocities of the past?

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Feall said. “Not that I don’t welcome your company.”

“We’ve just returned from searching for Mireldis Thay,” Amarinda stood tall. “There was no sign of her.”

“I can imagine it was surprising when word got out that Mireldis was here in Drylliad.”

“Is it true?”

Feall stepped aside, “See for yourself.”

Amarinda inhaled, clasping her hands behind her back as she looked over the girl in the cell.

Long red hair, bright green eyes, freckles that rivaled the stars. Her face was perfectly devoid of scars and blemishes. She wore trousers and a long black shirt. There was something fiercely confident in her stance.

This girl knew her value. 

“It’s-,” Amarinda began, releasing the breath she’d been holding.

Feall was nodding. “I know.”

Was it wrong how relieved her heart was?

Was it wrong that she was happy for the answer she’d been given?

“Is it what you wanted?” asked Tobias.

Amarinda squeezed his hand. “That’s. . . That’s not Mireldis Thay, love.”

“Somebody recognizes it,” the red haired girl wrinkled her nose. “I keep telling everyone my name is Ayvar, and they don’t believe me.”

“People thrive on gossip, I’m sorry for the mixup.”

“I don’t mind, I’d be a fool to get angry about being mistaken for a princess. . . And I’d be a fool for not being angry about being locked in here.”

“Banditry and attempting murder is-,” Amarinda began, but Feall shook his head, stopping her argument.

“Ayvar knows the man behind the attack.”

“And?”

“And she was innocent,” Feall gestured to Ayvar. “She is the Faola who fought with me against my attacker.”

Tobias nodded in agreement. “He’s telling the truth, there was one who broke away from the group to help him.”

She nodded, “And what do you propose?”

“I haven’t run this by Captain Harlowe yet, but I think it’s unfair to Ayvar to be trapped here despite being innocent of what she was arrested for,” explained Feall as he crossed his arms. “I’d like to promise freedom to Ayvar if she helps us capture the bandit who came after not only me, but your husband, a noble regent, might I add.”

A noble proposition indeed.

And yet, Amarinda was still unsure of how she felt about relying on a criminal for information.

People would do anything to get what they wanted.


	12. A Bloody Ballad

The sneezing never stopped. 

Always sneezing.

And it was all that cat’s fault. 

Jaron rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t the cat’s fault, it was his. He should’ve thought about his reaction to the cat when Renlyn managed to sell it to him. Cat hair was everywhere.

But by the Saints, nothing could best the smile Imogen had when she held that kitten on her lap.

He didn’t mind silent suffering if it meant Imogen’s happiness.

Her secret smiles filled his head. The way her hand sought his whenever they were near each other kept his feet planted on solid ground. Jaron knew that Imogen’s mere presence gave him the focus to solve every puzzle at his fingertips.

However, it went deeper than that.

Imogen insisted on looking him over each time he got into trouble. She had no qualm about staying up until the early hours of the morning when memories of Avenia plagued him. Her love came in gentle forms; she brought him deftly spun bracelets, a spoonful of sweet pastry dough, ruffled his hair with flour covered fingers.

He could sneeze for a millenia for her. 

With each passing day, his stance seemed more and more likely.

Did the Saints sneeze? 

Energy burst through him without a warning. Jaron stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the floor. He snatched the letter he’d been reading and began to pace. King Kippenger was sending a representative to discuss the situation Avenia was in.

There was nothing Jaron wouldn’t do to assist an ally, save abdicating the throne and a few other atrocious acts of course. He was prepared to give aid to Avenia in any shape.

He was prepared to send his best military leaders to action if needed. 

His mind instantly began thinking about what news Kippenger’s representative would be bringing. The path he walked was familiar. It gave him space to think outside of his normal routine. To the corner, to the door, to the shelf, back to the desk.

Thomas Row, that was the representative’s name. A farmer raised to nobility after demonstrating his loyalty not only to Avenia, but to Kippenger during the first months of his reign. 

Carthya’s harvests over the past four years had been wondrous, and a new push for education thanks to Amarinda and Tobias. Feall was working with Roden, and Jaron was confident that Feall would make a capable temporary replacement should Roden be sent to Avenia.

The pieces were in place. Jaron could play this figurative chess game and win. 

He was juggling what would happen if Avenia wouldn’t accept his help and what he would have to do to protect his own people.

Would it really be worth it to keep a Carthyan influence in Avenia if it only forced Avenians even further away from good relations?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

To many outcomes, not enough stable variables. 

Think, think, think. 

What could he do if Avenian relations soured?

Bymar would come to help, Jaron was certain of it. Mendenwal would likely come as well, and maybe even Gelyn, though the latter would likely have ill intentions. He could always completely withdraw Carthyan aid as a last resort. 

A very last resort.

Why, oh why couldn’t Thomas Row be there, knocking at the door?

Jaron rubbed his watering eyes, and returned to his desk. One letter down, countless others to go. He inched his chair backwards, inched his chair forwards, and wished he had a chair that spun in a circle. 

Saints, it wasn't even noon and he was already bored. 

He’d managed to read through ten letters when somebody finally came to check in on him. 

“Mott!” Jaron stood up, this time successfully knocking over his chair. “Thank the Saints, I wanted to ask you if-”

“No, I will not let you use a shield as a sled and ride down the grand staircase,” Mott’s brows lowered into a solid line. 

Jaron broke into a wicked grin, “Good idea, but that’s not what I was going to ask. You read Kippenger’s letter, no?”

“Haven’t had much to do but read since the attack.”

“Do you have any- oh.”

During the Avenian war, Mott had received a wound that would’ve killed him if not for Tobias’s skill as a doctor. The wound prevented Mott from fighting his way through a battle. 

The wicked grin Jaron sported faded into a deep frown. He wanted to be a good king, a just man who sought out justice rather than revenge.

It was a well kept secret that Mott’s ghost wound flared up. A well kept secret that the fight with the Faola who attacked Feall was responsible for the ghost pains.

But Jaron knew, he knew about Mott’s pain.

And if it weren’t for Imogen and Tobias, he would’ve taught the Faola a lesson they’d never forget.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” muttered Jaron, tossing through the emotions pulsing through his veins.

Anger, grief. Anger, grief. Anger, grief, and frustration.

Did nobody care how hard he was trying? Was that why there was still crime plaguing the streets of Drylliad?

“Not exactly, but I do appreciate the sentiment,” Mott shifted on his feet. “I did read Kippenger’s letter, and I dispatched a series of spies to try to locate his representative.”

“Did you find anything out?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, although the information came from someone who’s not one of ours.”

Oh?

Jaron motioned for Mott to continue, “Is it reliable information?”

“From a friend’s perspective, yes. However, from a ruler’s perspective there’s a series of holes in the story,” explained Mott. “My informant, ah, has a history of lute playing, colorful clothing, and pursuing every vice he can.”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“Jolly is my informant.”

He didn’t mean to snicker. He didn’t mean for that snicker to turn into a fit of laughter. Jaron coughed into his fist, trying his best to mask his grinnings, “Jolly is your informant? The man who sings about floral crowns and otherworldly romances?”

Mott was all too serious as he nodded. “Considering that he not only found Thomas Row in Avenia, he also managed to bring him here, I’d give him a bit more credit.”

“Lord Thomas Row is here!? When did he arrive!? Why wasn’t I informed!?”

“He requested to stay at an inn rather than in the castle, said he wanted to be with the army that accompanied him.”

“By the toes of every Saint, I have to meet with him,” Jaron bolted to the door, froze as his hand hovered above the handle, and turned back to face Mott. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Perhaps,” Mott said. “I have several things that require my attention, but I don’t suppose you’d be opposed to helping me with my duties.”

More chores?

More papers to read?

Jaron shrugged, “You can’t tell anyone, otherwise they’ll always come to me to help push papers around. I have duties of my own.”

“As do I.”

“To the Devils’ with duty then, I’m the king, my word is law.”

With a few catches, of course, but Jaron didn’t need to explain that. It would’ve diminished his perfect excuse for abandoning the papers on his desk. 

All he needed was a quick stop at his chambers to change his clothing. He’d be able to blend in with the crowd well enough in a pair of shabby trousers. It was a slight miracle that he hadn’t been recognized yet.

He was feeling more comfortable once he’d dressed in a patched shirt and ragged shoes.

Although when he stood next to Mott, who was still dressed plainly according to the royal court’s ridiculous standards, he looked like a pickpocket.

Once a thief, always a thief.

The courtyard was bustling with life. Horses were being led to shadier pastures outside the castle. Sheets and sheets hung on lines as they dried in the sun. Roden was yelling at a group of soldiers.

Everything was as it should be. Jaron was grateful for the false security the routine brought.

He would be a fool not to acknowledge that there was something not quite right anymore.

Like a right shoe being ever so slightly bigger than the left. Like a spoon and fork sharing the same engraven design, only the spoon was missing a line. 

Quiet yet obvious once found.

“Tell me about the army Thomas Row brought,” Jaron asked, stepping over a laundress’s large bar of soap.

“It’s a hired army,” Mott wiped his nose. The smell of heavy duty soap wasn’t the sweetest scent. “The army’s lead by a man called Commander Regar, I suspect his men are mostly Bymarian and Gelynian.”

“Ah, mercenary armies. They’re too unpredictable for my taste.”

“One could argue that you’re also too unpredictable for different peoples’ tastes.”

“I don’t give my loyalties to the highest bidder; mercenaries do.”

In fact, Jaron didn’t think the mercenary armies so favored by nobility were worth their cost. The mercenaries were little more than bandits who could play the game of life a little smarter. 

It was far better to find men willing to fight for something they loved rather than men who fought for coin.

“Market day should be a success,” Mott noted, gesturing to the various stands that had popped up overnight.

Jaron shrugged, “I’m hoping for a large supply of peaches this time. The peaches at last market day were full of worms.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait two days to see the peaches yourself.”

“Think I should have Roden pray for my peaches and their health?”

“Don’t be sacrilegious.”

Ah, market day was a thief’s dream. Hundreds of vendors came with their goods to sell, and security could only protect so many. Jaron had taken advantage of market days as a child. He rarely returned to Mrs. Turbeldy’s Home for Disadvantaged Boys with his hands empty after market day. Sometimes, he got lucky. Sometimes he was able to steal enough food to feed himself for a few days.

Though the anxiety that constantly tugged at his lungs made him wonder.

Made him think. 

Made him realize that maybe this market day would be unlike the others.

Perhaps he should get somebody to pray about it. 

Thomas Row was staying at the Traveler’s Inn, which meant a short walk for Jaron and Mott. . . If Thomas was there. And as fate would have it, Thomas wasn’t. He was at the Dragon’s Keep, catching up with a certain brightly colored troubadour. 

Jaron could hear the lute playing long before he saw the Dragon’s Keep. Jolly’s clear tenor voice sailed through the tavern’s open windows.

_There was blood in the kitchen  
And blood in the halls  
Blood in the bathtub  
Blood on the walls ___

__There was no way that tune was Carthyan, Jaron would’ve remembered a ballad that violent._ _

__“After you,” Jaron said, holding the door open for Mott._ _

__“On the contrary, after you Jaron.”_ _

__“No, after you.”_ _

__It took several more ‘after you!’s before Mott finally conceded and walked into the Dragon’s Keep with Jaron trailing behind him._ _

__Stepping into the Dragon’s Keep was like stepping into a warm cloud.Men and women crammed around almost every table. There was no set uniform among them, although several people wore thick, knee-length skirts with knotted patterns. Jolly was sitting on a table flanked by a man playing a large set of pipes and a woman playing a tin flute. Jolly’s tenor voice took on a thick Bymarian accent; the chords he played turned sour:_ _

___There was blood in the kitchen  
There was blood in the halls  
Blood in the bathtub  
Blood on the walls  
And blood on her Majesty, Lady Ingrithay  
A heart in her right hand, dagger in the other  
Ye can’t outrun yer mother  
She is yer judgement day ____ _

____Jaron shivered._ _ _ _

_____Ye can’t outrun yer mother  
She is yer judgement day ____ _ _ _

______“That’s him, Lord Row,” Mott said, gesturing to a man in humble clothes sitting a few tables away from Jolly and the other musicians._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lord Thomas Row was a plain man, save for his head of wiry, black braids. His white shirt flared down his arms and cinched around his wrists._ _ _ _ _ _

______Cinched around one of his wrists._ _ _ _ _ _

______One of his wrists?_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lord Row had a right hand, but the left one ended in an elegant, covered hook._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Sir Mott! It is good to see you!” Lord Row bellowed, and he lunged to embrace Mott. “It’s been too many years!”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Yes it has, Tom, yes it has,” Mott clapped Row’s back._ _ _ _ _ _

______Jaron tried to stop the squirming unease that came when watching a pair of old friends reunite._ _ _ _ _ _

______Once Row had broken off his embrace, he took a long look at Jaron. “Is this-?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“It is, no need for names, my friend, I came here to make your acquaintance before rushing into talks of politics,” Jaron said, extending his right hand. “Sometimes they get messy, I’d rather be friends than enemies. And forgive my dress, I find it’s easier to slip through crowds when not wearing a jeweled tunic.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“There’s no need for forgiveness, I wholeheartedly agree, and I sincerely hope you don’t become my enemy, your Majesty.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Please, call me Jaron.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I accept your invitation of friendship,” Row bowed his head. “Jaron.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“By the Saints can he change this ballad?” Mott grumbled as Jolly launched into a new verse._ _ _ _ _ _

_______Ye can run, ye can run  
But lady, o’lady  
Yer time’s almost done   
Sing like a bird, say what you say  
O’lady yer the one  
To stop dear Ingrithay_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Blood in the- ____ _ _ _ _ _

________“No! Don’t touch my lute you insufferable imp!” Shouted Jolly as he launched off the table._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Jaron let out a sigh of relief, “Find whoever stole the lute and bring them to me, I’ll give them a knighthood.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“The ballad isn’t that bad,” muttered a man from Row’s table._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“On the contrary, I think it is.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Ignore old Regar, he’s sympathetic for Bymarian ballads,” Row waved his hook at the man who’d spoken._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Regar held up his hand in greeting, but chose to drink the contents of his tankard than say hello._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“It’s not exactly a song for dancing,” Mott pointed out. “It’s Bymarian, you say?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Row nodded, “I’ve heard it multiple times on my journey here. Regar’s men are mostly from Idunn Craich, it’s been interesting hearing their tales, they’re much bloodier than tales from Bultain.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Only recent ones,” Regar said, having finally finished his drink. He dragged his hand across his bearded face and smiled, “Commander Regar, I am honored to be in your presence, Majesty.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Jaron made a face, but nodded in return._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He hated it when people called him Majesty._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________That’s what people called their prettiest mares, Saints be cursed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jaron said. “Sort of.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Thank you, I think.” Regar nodded his head. His eyes were elsewhere, and soon he was sitting again, nursing his tankard._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“See something you don’t like, Commander Regar?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He didn’t answer._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Regar isn’t the most spirited at this time, return in a few hours and he’ll be singing with our mutual friend Jolly,” Row said, setting his hook on Jaron’s shoulder. He steered both Jaron and Mott away from the table. “Jaron, may I ask how your day has gone?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Oddly average, if I must be honest,” Jaron said, still looking at Regar._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Ah, I must say the same, as average as riding can be.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mott chuckled, “That’s good news, I’d hate to know there were troubles with your travels, Row.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________His head was racing. Put the pieces together, put the pieces together! Regar was several inches taller than Jaron, and from his standpoint, could probably see more than Jaron could. From Regar’s eye-level, he could see the other side of the tavern, which was much emptier._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Bar maids dashed to and fro trying to appease every customer they could._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________One of them was serving drinks while keeping a lute free from Jolly’s hands. Green scarf in her bushy hair. Jolly’s ballad echoed through Jaron’s mind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________There was blood in the kitchen  
There was blood in the halls  
Blood in the bathtub  
Blood on the walls ____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Something was staring at him, right in the face._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It plagued him as he sat at the bar, listening to the bloody Bymarian ballads, and trying to weasel his way into Mott’s conversation with Lord Row._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He rubbed his eyes, which had finally stopped burning now that he’d left his cat hair covered office._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Aside from Lord Row and discussing Avenian policies, there were other matters to take care of. Among that never ending list of problems to be solved was the Faola attack on Feall._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It took numerous questions from Feall, Roden, Amarinda, and himself to firmly conclude that the girl who’d been arrested wasn’t responsible. She was simply doing the wrong things, got involved with the wrong people, and got caught at the wrong time._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________But Feall had suggested bargaining with her. Bargaining with Ayvar, a criminal._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It wasn’t the worst deal Jaron had to make._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He promised Ayvar her freedom and a pardon for banditry if she was able to help them catch the culprit. She swore on her own false grave in Gelyn that she would keep her word, and was prepared to act immediately if needed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ayvar would remain a prisoner but would be moved to a tower room. She would be given ample food, water, and blankets._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________All she needed to do was be prepared for when she was needed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It was a game, and Jaron didn’t mind playing games._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He only hoped that he’d win this time._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Too many times had he gambled and lost, resulting in disastrous consequences and a pile of innocent victims. This time, it would be different. He would catch a Faola, and in the process, drive away all the others._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________There was blood in the kitchen  
There was blood in the halls  
Blood in the bathtub  
Blood on the walls ____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jaron rubbed his eyes. The words to Jolly’s song refused to leave._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It seemed that even thinking of Jolly caused him to appear. “Headache, sir?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“No, no, I bought a cat from Renlyn Karise, turns out I don’t do well when cats are around,” Jaron confessed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jaron didn’t want to admit that he was thankful for Jolly’s company; he didn’t want to admit that Mott was talking to Lord Row much better than he was._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Ah, Renlyn,” Jolly held a hand over his heart. “The envy of every man and their wives. A beauty and a wickedly intelligent woman.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Imogen mentioned that you knew her, how did the pair of you meet?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jolly’s blush matched the pink details on his blue jerkin, “Ah, well, I was one of the fools who chased after Ren for her golden curls. I thought I was clever by tricking her into a gambling game. . .”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“And?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“And I lost everything. She gave it back, of course, but I learned my lesson. Karise is a force to be reckoned with, and a fierce friend. But she’s good at every kind of game.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Especially the game of How Much Money can Jaron Waste on a Cat?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“And you know Merry, as well,” Jaron noted, gesturing to the girl in question as she dragged a box of dirty dishes to the back room. “How?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“It’s not my story to tell,” Jolly scratched his mass of black hair. “I’m sure you could ask her about it one day, not sure how much luck you have.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I’ve heard plenty about her, believe me. Roden, ah, Roden gets easily excited when he’s on the bottle.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Yes, yes he does.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“And how do you know Roden?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“You know what,” Jolly made a face. “I’m not quite sure, we were speaking in a tavern and he’s always been a friend of mine. Wrote a ballad about him, and a ballad about Renlyn. I have a ballad I’m writing about-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Don’t say it’s about me and Imogen.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“-you and Imogen.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“By the toes of all the Saints,” Jaron pinched his nose. “At least make it a good one.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I can sing it right now!” Jolly bounced away from the bar, swinging his lute into action._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jaron’s eyes went wide as Jolly began strumming each chord, tuning them all to perfection. He began plucking out the first few notes, which led to a series of slowly strummed chords. Jolly heaved in a breath, preparing to sing, when out of nowhere a pair of hands shot out and stole the lute._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“You’re in timeout!” Merry said, cradling the lute in her arms. “You sang Ingrithay too many times, you’ll lose your voice!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Merry, Merry, quite contrary, you tug my- that’s actually a wonderful rhyme,” Jolly made a face, nodding ever so slowly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________In silence, Jaron pressed his hands together and bowed his head, grateful for Merry’s interference. She winked at him in return._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She patted Jolly’s shoulder, “That’s right, my tortured artist, think about your songs, and drink something warm. Can I get anything for you gentlemen?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I’ve heard the lemon tarts here are very nice,” Jaron said, exchanging a sneaky grin with Mott._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________That wasn’t the only thing they’d heard._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“And for you, Lord Row?” Merry cradled the lute in one arm, and set her free hand on her hip._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I’m quite well, thank you,” Lord Row flashed a smile. “I’ll be certain to call for you should anything change.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I’ll do my best to answer that call, sir.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________There was blood in the kitchen  
There was blood in the halls  
Blood in the bathtub  
Blood on the walls ____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________No, no. Not the rhyme again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________He hated not having all the answers. He hated knowing that there was something lurking in his future._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________\--------------------------------_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“This stuff, really?” Tobias asked, gesturing to the bottle not far from Roden’s reach._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________As much as he tried, Lord Thomas Row was more concerned with checking in on Commander Regar’s men, and opted to save their discussion for a few days later._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Meaning Jaron had nothing to do for an entire evening._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________His first instinct was to snuggle up to Imogen, or do something silly like cover her eyes and guide her through the castle. However, his attempt to steal her away came too late: Amarinda had commandeered Imogen and Renlyn for an evening ride in the woods with Feall and Mott as chaperones._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________His second instinct was to pester Roden into doing something fun, but when he entered Roden’s usually clean office, he knew he was gravely mistaken._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Pieces of fabric and at least one of Roden’s shirts were scattered about the floor. He and Tobias were arguing about something, but the argument came to a grating halt when Jaron walked in._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Be quiet Tobias, you need loads of spirits to be a seamstress,” Jaron wrinkled his nose. “Let Roden embrace his dreams.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I’m not becoming a seamstress!” Roden crossed his arms, his frown rivaling the gargoyles on Drylliad’s biggest cathedral._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Are too!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Am not!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Are too!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Am not!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Then why do you have a pair of shears in your hand and fabric on your lap?” Jaron sauntered over to Roden’s desk, sat in his chair, and kicked his heels up. “I can arrange for you to get more pretty things if you’d like.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Roden perked up, “Really? I mean, no! That’s not what I want!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Oh he definitely wants pretty things,” Tobias pointed out. He’d picked up the bottle on Roden’s desk. “This is definitely stronger than what I’m used to trying.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________As Roden curled over his piece of fabric, Jaron looked to Tobias, and both exchanged a snicker._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________If he couldn’t convince Roden to ride a shield like a sled down the grand staircase, Jaron would make fun of him till he reacted. That would be worth it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Tobias looked at Roden, who was cursing his scissors, and made an outline of- of a bell?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Jaron squinted at him, shrugged, and shook his head. What could he do with a bell? What- oh! Tobias was making the outline of a skirt, not a bell. Ah! Jaron could work with skirt jokes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“You know, I hear Bymarian women wear dresses with slits so they can move,” Jaron rubbed his nose. “I’m sure Amarinda can get you one.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“No, no, that wouldn’t work,” Roden waved his hand, and didn’t bother looking back._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Looking for reassurance, Jaron looked at Tobias, who was sniffing the contents of Roden’s bottle of spirits. He made a face as the fumes escaped. No reassurance from him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________There had to be a way to upset Roden. “Are you more of a skirt person?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________He paused and straightened. “I suppose I am.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Once again, Jaron looked to Tobias. This time, Tobias was prepared with a confused shrug._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Are you- are you being serious?” Jaron leaned forwards. He’d heard of men wearing skirts into battle. By the Devils, even some of Regar’s men wore skirts. He just hadn’t expected Roden to suddenly take a stance on the trend._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I don’t really mind what a girl wears,” Roden looked back to glare at Jaron. “Why are you asking me this?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I was talking about you wearing a dress, you oaf.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Roden pointed his scissors at Jaron, “No. I’m not playing this game, I’m in a good mood.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Good mood? I’d like to change that.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Jaron, nothing you could do could change that. I have the evening off and-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Are you making dish rags for the kitchen staff?” asked Jaron, now resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on Roden’s desk. “No, Tobias, don’t drink that. I need somebody on my side in case Roden plays dirty.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Unfortunately, Tobias was looking to do something foolish too. Jaron could hear him draining Roden’s bottle of spirits._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Dear Saints, he was causing a circus._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Good!_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I’m not going to fight y-,” Roden tried, but Jaron was eager to do something incredibly foolish._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“You’re making hair scarves for Merry, aren’t you?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Aha! He’d hit a nerve!_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“So?” Roden grumbled, curling back over his fabric. “I like seeing her ears. One of them has this-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Boring!” Jaron jumped to his feet, and walked over to a fine square of red fabric. “You want to know what would make these all prettier? Tobias, you’re going to pass out.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I think I deserve a quick nap,” Tobias argued, setting down the now half-empty bottle of spirits. “Jaron, don’t do something stupid, remember what we said about being kind.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Oh yes, Jaron remembered that deep discussion. Something about being considerate for others and not pestering people until they reacted in a negative way. During the conversation, Tobias pointed out that perhaps Jaron wasn’t used to receiving any verbal or physical attention, which was likely the cause of Jaron’s desire to punch Roden as hard as he could during the most obscure times._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Unfortunately, Tobias’s statements were too close to home. During the next large banquet, Jaron made sure to punch Tobias as hard as he could rather than Roden._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________He’d certainly gotten an earful from Imogen after that._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Don’t. You. Dare.” Roden growled, slowly rising to a stance to attack._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Jaron raised his foot above the red square of fabric, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I’m warning you. Don’t do-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“What, this?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________His intention was to bring his boot down on the red square of fabric and leave a massive footprint, but he wasn’t sure if he accomplished his goal. Roden had launched himself right at Jaron, sending both of them careening across the floor._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Hey, hey, hey! I’m a little guy! It’s my birth- hey!” Jaron cried out trying to wriggle out of Roden’s deathgrip._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I told you not to touch the fabric!” Roden roared._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Jaron felt his feet touch the ground for a split second, and then he was hurled over Roden’s shoulder. Completely unfair. He refused to stand for it. Jaron kicked his legs like a fish, grabbed the back of Roden’s tunic, and tumbled to the ground._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________He barely managed to roll away from Roden’s swinging foot._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Oh, the fabric,” Tobias murmured. “It’s so pretty.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Quick-” Jaron dodged a flying fist “-question! What was in the bottle?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Roden lunged, successfully grabbing Jaron by the left leg and dragging him to the ground. “It’s from Libeth!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Now that wasn’t good at all. Libeth had some of the wildest alcohol brewers in the entire kingdom. Supposedly, they made a liquor strong enough to remove barnacles from sea vessels._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________And how much had Tobias drank?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped and wiped his eyes. “Roden was making little hair scarves-,” another hiccup. “Making hair scarves for Murry. Little scarves, oh dear Saints, this boy can only wield a sword, bless him in these days as he-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Shut up Tobias!” Jaron and Roden yelled._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________By the Devils! Roden had the upper hand again! Jaron was all too aware of Roden’s hand holding both of his wrists, which meant only one thing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Please, Roden, I beg you, it was just a joke!’ Jaron whimpered, trying to weasel out of his grip._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________No, no, no._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________The first time Jaron and Roden had gotten into a physical fight ended the same way, with Jaron unable to move and Roden prepared to deliver the finishing blow._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I just wanted to cut up fabric!” Roden argued. “Tobias and I were doing fine before you barged in!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I was bored! Please don’t do this!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“You could’ve helped with the fabric!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I wasn’t that bored!” Jaron squirmed again. “Please, Saints, no. No! Ah!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________The finishing blow was the worst part of the fight. Roden had licked his little finger, and shoved it into Jaron’s ear._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Although, now there was a third party involved._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Tobias flung his arms around both Roden and Jaron, tears streaming down his face. “I love you both with my whole heart, honest to the Saints. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Can you get Roden to take his nasty hands off of my body!?” Jaron bellowed, yanking his head free from Roden’s little finger._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Does the baby need a nap?” Roden cooed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Oh, ho, ho, Roden was remembering old exchanged insults. Jaron unsuccessfully tried to escape, but to no avail. Roden hooked his arms beneath Jaron’s knees, and swung him up into his arms, while still keeping a drunken Tobias on his feet._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Put me down!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Not until you apologize!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Roden?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Yes?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Rot with the Devils, you clotpole.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Tobias’s quiet tears turned into sobs as he wrapped his arms around Jaron and Roden once again. “Little hair scarves.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________It was quite the scene to walk into: Roden holding Jaron like a baby, Tobias sobbing like he’d learned he would die soon, and bits of cut up colorful fabric covered the floor. It just so happened that Amarinda’s night ride finished early._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________They didn’t look pleased._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________The disappointment in Mott’s eyes was an all too familiar sight._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I can explain,” Jaron croaked, finally realizing that he’d lost the fight._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________A fight that he started._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“It looks like a dress shop in here,” Mott clasped his hands behind his back, Amarinda, Renlyn, and Imogen trailing behind him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Roden practically dropped Jaron on the floor. “I was trying to make something, and then Jaron showed up.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Hey, you didn’t have to hit me,” argued Jaron. He grunted when Tobias set his head on Jaron’s shoulder, and refused to move. “Get off of me!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________The only answer Tobias gave was a new wave of silent tears, and a fresh set of apologies._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Mott’s face didn’t betray a single emotion. “Weren’t you going to meet with Lord Row?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“He moved the meeting back, and I happened to finish my work this evening, and didn’t want to be alone.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“So you picked a fight with Roden?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Jaron scowled, he realized how foolish he’d been in starting the fight. A conversation wouldn’t have been enough for him, there was too much energy bursting through his body._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“These are pretty,” Amarinda held up an opaque piece of yellow fabric._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Don’t worry, I’m not making myself a skirt,” grunted Roden, his hands full of different fabric squares._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Were you putting something together?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I finished, so it doesn’t really matter.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped. “He was making tiny, tiny scarves. For Merry, to wear.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________There hadn’t been a time when Tobias had been so drunk before, or at least there hadn’t been a time Jaron could remember._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Amarinda sighed, and transferred Tobias’s head from Jaron’s shoulder to her own.“Oh, darling, what did you do this time?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“They were fighting, and I’ve had it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Amarinda patted the side of Tobias’s head, her eyes boring into Jaron’s very soul. However, she gave no biting remarks, she only wrapped her arm around Tobias’s waist. Together, they inched towards the door._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Her smile was forced. “I’ll be taking him to our chamber, I don’t want him doing something foolish.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Is that from Libeth?” Imogen asked, gesturing to the bottle on Roden’s desk._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________However, before anyone could give a clear answer, Renlyn took a large swig from the bottle, set it down, and frowned. “That batch was weak.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“You know what?” Jaron crossed his arms. “I don’t think I want to know. Jolly told me about your tendencies.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Is that an invitation for me to take over the kingdom through a gambling match?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Absolutely not, I’ve been warned, and I won’t ever concede to your money games again.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“That’s what they all say.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________By the Saints! Jaron scowled at Renlyn, who had the audacity to remain completely placid. He knew deep in his heart that he’d have to do something worse than terrorize Roden to get a reaction out of the notorious Renlyn Karise._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Imogen raised her hands, “Ah, we should take the energy down a notch, don’t you think?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Jaron started it!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I know Roden, I usually start things, unlike you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Jaron!” Everyone chorused, followed by Tobias’s slurred agreement._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“What!?” Jaron crossed his arms, screwing his face into the fiercest scowl he could._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________He’d rather be lectured than think of those cursed lyrics._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________There was blood in the kitchen  
There was blood in the halls ____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Jaron would rather hear complaints and be tossed around like a child’s doll than consider what fate had in store for him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________He wasn’t ready yet._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________He just wasn’t ready._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	13. Feall's Deadly Dance

"I brought you something, Jaron."

Oh, did she now?

His interest was captured. Jaron sat up from where he was lying on the floor. "Imogen, I'm-"

"It's alright, we all have bad days," Imogen said, she handed him a mug, and sat down beside him.

Did he have a good enough excuse for what he did? Probably not. Too much energy pulsed through Jaron's body. It was time to escape. Time to get out.

Taking it out on Roden was all too easy.

It was easier to throw a punch than discuss tender topics.

He was coming to terms with his anxiety by ignoring it. His palms were always sweaty, and his stomach was constantly being squeezed. Something was staring at him right in the face. Jaron scratched the back of his head.

Imogen's hand was on his shoulder, she was there to listen.

"I'll be meeting with Lord Row this afternoon," Jaron muttered. "I have a plan for whatever he asks. A way to help Avenia in any way we can."

"Good, a plan is always good," said Imogen, a tiny smile fluttering across her face.

Jaron lived for those tiny butterfly smiles.

"There's too much waiting in the future. I don't like that I've once again had to bargain with a criminal and I don't like all of this pressure to find Mireldis Thay. I know how it feels to be the lost   
royal, and even if she's alive, I'd rather respect her choice to remain hidden. Her name is being   
used as a scapegoat, and it's not fair."

Silence settled in. Jaron sipped from his mug; Imogen had brought him some sour tasting tea. The warmth spread through his throat, threatening to overtake the chilling anxiety that hadn’t quite left since he’d returned to court so long ago.

Even if he couldn’t save everyone, he could do what he could to help. 

“Do you think I should apologize to Roden for what I did last night?” Jaron mumbled. 

A dark curl fell across Imogen’s nose as she shook her head. “I think you might make him mad. Give him a little space, and then apologize.”

An apology was due this time. Jaron had been the one to start their fight. 

Uncomfortable emotions tugged at his false sense of normalcy. 

He chose to run from what he felt. “Did you know that Jolly has quite the network of people?” 

“I did, actually. Amarinda was a little upset when she found out he’d be staying in Drylliad,” Imogen squeezed Jaron’s shoulder. “She fears that many of the people we’ve met aren’t who they say they are.”

“Nobody is who they say they are. We tell people what we want them to think and only show our true faces when we’re alone.”

“That’s not quite true.”

“Oh yes it is, Imogen.”

Anger was rising up in his lungs. Drink the tea, drink the tea. Jaron tipped his head back and didn’t stop drinking the scalding liquid even as it seared down his throat.

It was still hard to accept that no matter how hard he tried to hide, Imogen was there. She was always there with a kind word, and always there with a biting word if he did something dangerous. 

But she was welcome.

Everyone’s filled with holes. 

When he was removed from his family a decade ago, a Mother sized hole tore through his heart, followed by a Father shaped hole, and a Darius shaped hole. 

No, no. It wasn’t a hole, it was a hollow. Hollows could be filled, but not every hole could.

Jaron had a family hollow in his heart for too long. 

He was still getting used to having that hollow filled. Still getting used to how Imogen had stepped into his hollow, hollow heart and filled him with warmth.

Sometimes that warmth burst, and he always gave into it.

Emotion was a curse that plagued his family. Too much sympathy, too much energy, too much of everything.

It wasn’t very often that he lost control. In fact, Jaron prided himself on his ability to hold his head high in the face of condescending nobles. They tried their best to use his unorthodox tendencies against him, and he responded with a ferocity that his father, King Eckbert, had lacked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said,” Jaron dragged his hand over his face. “I haven’t been feeling as prepared as I’d like to be.”

Imogen was silent for several moments, then leaned over, and smoothed down Jaron’s hair. “Is there anything I can do to help? As your friend, and your wife, I want to support you however I can.”

There were so many things he needed, but the second somebody asked, he didn’t want to speak of them. 

With Imogen, it was different. 

She’d seen him at his very best and very worst, there was nothing he could willingly hide from her. 

“I, ah, I’m having trouble picking my battles.”

“Which battles? We’ll go through them together.”

Go through battle together. With Imogen at his side, Jaron could do anything. He set down the mug, and reached for her hand. “I’ve been considering my deal with Ayvar, about catching the patched Faola who nearly butchered Feall. There’s too many things I can’t figure out, too many details are missing, and I can’t make a gamble without them.”

“Are there connections you’ve made?” Imogen asked, her head tilting ever so slightly. “There’s more to this than just an attack on a military leader. It reeks of something worse. I think the attack on Feall was very much on purpose; I think it was an assassination attempt.”

“But the motive? What was the motive? Feall has charmed everyone at court, he’s very well liked. It’s very difficult to get a large group of people in on an assassination attempt, and Ayvar’s resistance only proves that.”

“Are we ruling out money as a motive?”

Jaron drummed his fingers against the back of Imogen’s hand. “I think so. Too expensive for a group that large to attack one man. I’m also ruling out robbery, as Tobias, Renlyn, and Mott weren’t harmed on purpose. Any injuries that came were because they fought back.”

The most obvious remaining motive held the lowest moral ground.

Perhaps Feall had been attacked because somebody wanted his head on a pike, because somebody hated him with a fire that could only be put out with Feall’s death.

An attacker thinking like this would find a way to take their revenge, or die trying.

“I’m sorry, I have to stand, it’s hard to-” Jaron began, but Imogen had already sprung to her feet.

She’d extended her hand. “You don’t have to apologize. We’ll walk to the atrium.”

His heart was going to burst.

Imogen didn’t need to hear his excuse. She just _knew _. She’d grown to accept that his mind worked best while he moved.__

__There were times when he questioned why he prayed to the Saints, as it was very clear that he was married to one of them._ _

__Arm in arm, Jaron and Imogen left the office, their pace gradually quickening. Fast walking made for fast thinking._ _

__Who on earth would want Feall dead enough to follow him to Carthya?_ _

__Memories, memories. Jaron wrinkled his nose as he thought back to when Feall first arrived so many weeks ago._ _

__The Faola had attacked him then too, called Feall by name, who responded in turn. Jaron hadn’t noticed it then. Hadn’t notice how casual the exchange was despite lives being on the line._ _

__Feall _knew _who his attacker was.___ _

____"What are they calling you here? Shrike? The Black Knight?"_ _ _ _

____"Fight me like a man, Feall. There's a score to be settled."_ _ _ _

____"Many people want to settle scores with me, you'll have to tell me your name first.”_ _ _ _

____"Rot in Hell."_ _ _ _

____“You know that I’m not the one who’ll be rotting with the Devils.”_ _ _ _

____“Feall insists that the attacker was Mireldis Thay, but I didn’t think it was true. People take powerful names all the time,” Jaron mused, shifting his hand to the small of Imogen’s back. “I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I was wrong.”_ _ _ _

____The movement was subtle, but Jaron had a trained eye. He saw the tiny flicker of Imogen’s hand as it brushed her left collarbone.  
Though her wound had healed long ago, Imogen’s shoulder could never quite forget the pain of an arrow wound. Her ghost pains made the occasional appearance. Jaron trained himself to catch the signs of their return._ _ _ _

____He guided her away from the busy hallway, and kissed her fingertips, “Are you alright?”_ _ _ _

____The smile on Imogen’s face was sharp and bitter, nothing like the shy butterfly smiles she’d been flashing not long ago._ _ _ _

____She paused for a moment, her hand hovering over her collarbone. Her hand fell to her side. “I can think of quite a few reasons why- if Feall’s claims are right -Thay would want him dead by her own hand.”_ _ _ _

____Was it wrong that Jaron nodded his head?_ _ _ _

____Was it wrong that he knew what that lust for revenge tasted like?_ _ _ _

____Revenge was easy to justify, it was easy to die for, and it was easy to spiral down the wrong path because of it._ _ _ _

____Jaron touched Imogen’s face._ _ _ _

____“I don’t want to be coddled, Jaron, I want to continue this conversation,” Imogen rolled her shoulders back. “If Feall is right, then we have to consider where Mireldis is coming from.”_ _ _ _

____“Mireldis might not be alive, too,” Jaron noted, taking great care to keep his pace slow and even._ _ _ _

____“Then we find somebody who’s seen her. Who knows her.”_ _ _ _

____“I, ah, I can think of somebody who might have our answers.”_ _ _ _

____“Are we thinking of the same person?” Imogen arched her eyebrows._ _ _ _

____He made a face, desperate to distract Imogen from feeling her ghost pains again.“Possibly, but just in case, you say your answer first so I can agree with you.”_ _ _ _

____“Jolly may have what we’re looking for. He seems to know everyone who ever lived.”_ _ _ _

____“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Jaron grinned. He looped an arm around Imogen’s waist. “Perhaps we could pay him a visit. With a list of ballads, of course, I have no intention of listening to Ingrithay ever again.”_ _ _ _

____“Catchy ballad?” asked Imogen, her hand settling atop Jaron’s._ _ _ _

____“Catchy _and _creepy.”___ _ _ _

_______There was blood in the kitchen,  
There was- ____ _ _ _ _ _

________No! Not again!_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________There was a time from long, long ago when Jaron’s father would let him play in the corner of his study. . . If Jaron agreed to be quiet. Eckbert had a fondness for yellow citrus in his tea, and Jaron had a fondness for biting into whatever food he could. There would be no forgetting the way that slice of lemon tore through Jaron’s child mouth._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The expression he wore was the equivalent to the face he’d made after realizing how big of a mistake it was to bite into a lemon._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Careful dear, your face will freeze that way,” Imogen said, patting Jaron’s cheek._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“But would you still love me if my face looked that way? That’s my real concern,” countered Jaron._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’d still love you no matter what way your face freezes.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Imogen, you’re implying that my face _is _going to freeze.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I’ve seen the expressions you make while explaining what the nobles request.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron chuckled, he couldn’t deny that. He’d considered becoming a model for gargoyle expressions. They could learn from the deep grimaces he made when reading over suggested policies._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Would you still love me if I were a miniscule beetle?” He stepped ahead of Imogen, and held open the door to the massive atrium._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She nodded, “I would, in fact. I’d take care of you and make you a little beetle house and give you little crumbs of cake.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Promise me you won’t give me lentils. They’re disgusting and bad for beetles.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I didn’t realize beetles had specific diets.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“They don’t, I just don’t want you to feed beetle me any lentils.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Imogen set her hand over her heart, “I swear I won’t feed you any lentils in the event that you are magically turned into a bug.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“A beetle Imogen. There’s a difference.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________\--------------------------------_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Gold sunset light saturated the entire castle. It almost lifted Jaron’s spirits as he looked over each of his regents._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________They all stood as he walked into the throne room, flanked by Mott and Harlowe. He held out his hand, prompting them to sit, and sat down in his cushioned chair. Gold sunset light saturated the throne room. One man remained standing. He flashed a small grin at Jaron._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Lord Thomas Row was wearing a splendid hook, but aside from that, wore almost the same clothing that he’d worn the day before. His braided black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and adorned with a series of elegant beads._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He stood out among the richly dressed regents._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Your Majesty, I once again must thank you on behalf of Avenia for assisting us during this time,” Row said, bowing deeply._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron dipped his head, “It’s what anyone would do for an ally; for a friend. I’m prepared to hear what you’ve come to say, and I’m prepared to give Avenia aid in any way possible.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________With some exceptions, of course. Jaron refused to turn to dishonesty for as long as he could, he’d seen what happened when somebody was afraid to face the truth._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He’d been a victim of what happened when somebody was afraid to face the truth._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“We pray that all is well in Avenia,” Harlowe said. “Please, tell us of Avenia.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The regents leaned forward in their chairs; Row rolled his shoulders back. “Your Majesty, regents, Sir Mott, I bring news of mixed success. I am proud to say that the southern region is doing well, we’ve allowed everyone an opportunity to learn to read, and in turn, our now literate farmers have been able to bring us economic success with their imports and exports._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“We’ve seen this pattern throughout the entire country, although this progress hasn’t spread easily through the northern regions. This is where we come for Carthyan aid, King Jaron. There are rumors of revolution in Isel. We haven’t found the cause of these rumors, though we suggest they were put into Iseli heads by an outside source, likely Gelynian or another outside source._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“King Aranscot has long envied Isel and its value. King Kippenger’s reign is still much like an unsteady colt stumbling through its first day, it wouldn’t take much for King Aranscot to topple the entire regime, and plunge Avenia into darkness once again.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Are you requesting military assistance, Lord Row?” Jaron asked, his hands clasped in his lap._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Row shook his head, “Not to that extent, your Highness. King Kippenger would feel much better knowing there is at least a small Carthyan presence in Isel.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ah, yes, Carthyan influence._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________If Jaron played his cards right, he’d be able to fulfill Kippenger’s request without causing any offense. He wouldn’t be able to send Roden, his reputation preceded him, and Roden’s presence would likely invoke more fear than peace._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________But if he placed a noble there, one with enough popularity, that could bring Kippenger a new sense of ease._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Renlyn Karise’s name bounced around in his head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She’d be a valuable asset to Isel, she had property there, and enough power to hire her own army if needed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________However, Renlyn was a good friend to Imogen, and Jaron didn’t have the heart to sever that relationship._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron felt a frown tug at his lips. He scanned the regents, trying to find Tobias for support. “Could you see this unease growing into a call to arms against King Kippenger?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Tobias gave the slightest nod of his head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Perhaps, although we’d rather be safe than sorry, Avenia’s armies would be able to handle the insurgents should any fighting arise,” explained Row. “We hope that Carthya’s presence would be enough to stifle any more talk of revolution.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Hope might not be enough, but I am willing to take that risk in order to keep the peace.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Your Majesty, please understand that Avenia wants no more war, we fear bloodshed, and we fear the implications it would bring to every realm near the Eranbole sea.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I see your concern, Lord Row, and I will do my best to ease this fear,” Jaron held his hand over his heart. “I sense there’s more you have to say?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Row shifted on his feet. “We’ve heard rumors that Mireldis Thay is in your custody, and though King Kippenger finds chasing rumors the work of a child, he does like to be informed. Is this true?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Now it was the regents’ turn to all shift in their seats. Harlowe looked to Jaron for permission to speak, “I’m afraid we have only rumors about Lady Thay. There is nothing to fear, the young woman in Carthya’s protection is a bandit named Ayvar.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Ah, what a pity, I suppose,” Row sighed, and he held his hook in his hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mott frowned, “Your reaction is vastly different from what’s common.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I’ve never been one to accept information without picking it apart.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“If only more people were like you then, Lord Row,” Jaron said. “However, we are here for Avenia’s sake, not Mireldis Thay’s.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You are correct, your Majesty.” Once again, Lord Row bowed. “I shall leave you to discuss my nation’s matters with your regents, but I must ask that you do so with speed. I will not see my people suffer and a nation overthrown because of bureaucratic loopholes.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron didn’t bother hiding his smirk. It was no secret that Carthyan kings rarely got along with their regents. “My word is final, and my regents understand that.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I trust your judgement, King Jaron. If you would wish to speak with me, you know how and where to find me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“We will send for you the minute the King’s council has come to an agreement,” Harlowe promised. “Thank you for your time, Lord Row, and take care.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Your concern is reassuring, Lord Harlowe. I eagerly await the King’s response.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The throne room remained silent as every pair of eyes watched Row walk away from them. He might not have been born into his title, but he carried himself with pride._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He carried himself with dignity._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Your Majesty, I know we have an agreement with Avenia, but-,” began the infamous Mistress Orlaine, who would’ve lost her position as regent ages ago if Jaron didn’t care for his public image. She had the means to turn people against him, and Jaron couldn’t have that._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“But nothing, they are our ally, and if they need help, we will help them,” Jaron cut in. “If my father had been more willing to take action, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. We will stand united in kindness and honesty, not through going back on our word.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“We can’t send military aid, not without angering King Aranscot, he would think that we are preparing to rise against him,” Harlowe mused. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, obviously thinking of a solution._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron drummed his fingers on his knee, “I will think of something, but whatever we do, we must do what we can to help King Kippenger.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Why be kind to them? They’re a nation of thieves,” spat another regent, Master Termouthe. “We must honor tradition, your Majesty. Without tradition, we are nothing.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“And I acknowledge that, Lord Termouthe, I do, but traditions and times change. A nation of thieves cannot change on its own, King Kippenger deserves our support, and it would be selfish of us not to share what we have.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The regents were becoming fussy. Another elderly mistress grunted. “We could be sharing what we have with our people. Your disregard for royal luxury is fuel for gossip.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“And yet, I find that facing gossip is much better than leaving men and women to starve in the streets,” Tobias butted in. “This is a matter of Avenian policy, not an opportunity to scrutinize personal choices.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Bold words coming from-,” Termouthe’s sentence never finished._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________People rarely finished insulting statements when Mott fixed a glare on them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Then it’s settled,” Jaron stood up from his chair. “We are sending somebody to Isel to keep the peace. I will call another meeting when I have made my choice.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Termouthe, Orlaine, and the other dissenters kept their eyes glued to the ground._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Lord Harlowe, Lord Branch, Sir Mott,” said Jaron, clasping his hands behind his back. “I would very much like to discuss our options in private.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You are dismissed,” Harlowe gestured from the regents to the wide, open doors._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Each regent stood, bowed, and walked out a little too slowly for Jaron’s taste. They were trying to stay and hear what he had to say._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________But they would hear nothing that would advance their agendas._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Mott, do you know anything about Commander Regar? Did you talk to him at all?” Jaron asked, pacing from his throne to Tobias’s chair, to Harlowe, and back to his throne. “Is he still here?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mott set his ankle on his knee, leaning back into his charge in the process. “I spoke with him as best I could, but I know him, Jaron. He’s clean.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________No matter how much time Jaron spent with Mott, there were still so many things he didn’t know about him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Don’t you find it odd that Lord Row asked about Mireldis Thay?” Tobias pointed out. He was sitting almost as straight as the back of his chair. “I doubt Row has ever met her.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Commander Regar._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Regar, Regar, Regar._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Saints be cursed, something was staring at him right in the face. Jaron was smart, why was he still struggling with this puzzle?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I’ll have to add that to my list of questions,” Jaron grunted._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Tobias shifted, “List of questions?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Imogen and I have an idea that a mutual friend of ours may know more than we’d expect. We’re going to pay him a visit.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“He plays a lute and wears colors that murder the eyes, doesn’t he?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron nodded, “You’re correct, and I will come back with answers, or I won’t come back at all.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________A bold promise, but Jaron knew what he was capable of. His mind was beginning to get ahead of him, he was dreaming of all the possibilities awaiting him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Perhaps he was wrong about everything, and there was no need to have an entire gang of morally grey thieves be thrown into the dungeon._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Or maybe he and Imogen were right. Maybe Mireldis Thay had come to Carthya with every intention to slaughter Feall, or die trying._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________A crime punishable by death._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Jaron, I do hate to backtrack,” Harlowe inhaled. “But I would propose that we station a small company of soldiers in Libeth, just in case the situation in Avenia goes wrong. It would be much easier to mobilize forces from there than from here.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“That-, that’s not a half bad idea, actually. Ah, Harlowe, you’re far too brilliant to be working with these regents.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“As are you, my king.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron waved the comment away, “I’ll speak with Roden about moving soldiers. Aranscot will likely figure our movements out, but he has nothing to do with the unrest in Isel, then he’ll leave us alone. If he does have something to do with the unrest, then we have our answer.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Isn’t it nice when things are straightforward?” Hummed Tobias, who’d begun rubbing his temples. “We’ll be able to move onto our next item of business once the troops are placed, there won’t be any secrets about it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Any secrets._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Several of Jaron’s policies were ridiculed by many of the regents. They mocked the way he kept things in the open. But it was because of honesty that Carthya was beginning to thrive._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Is the castle going to be involved in this year’s Blackberry Night?” Tobias was chipping away at every detail he could._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I’ll think about it,” Jaron shrugged. “We’ve had a festival already, and Blackberry Night gets a little too wild for my taste.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“The festival was weeks ago, Amarinda and I could coordinate it, and maybe it’ll draw in-“_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I said I’d think about it, Tobias.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________There were grander things to worry about than a party. Things with more benefits than gaining favor with regents who’d hate Jaron til either he died, or they died._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mott accompanied him as he excused himself from the tiny meeting. They’d formed a pact in the dead of night not long ago to check in on Feall after the recent attack. They’d also both agreed to keeping Tobias indoors for a few days. Both Mott and Jaron clung to their promises for as long as they could, but eventually Amarinda left with Queen Danika’s investigators to search for Mireldis Thay, and nothing on earth could keep Tobias from going with her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mystic and Mott’s mare were already saddled and waiting to be ridden._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Market day is going to happen shortly before the Morning of the Saints,” Mott said as he and Jaron stepped into the castle courtyard._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Are you trying to start a debate about my church attendance with me?” Jaron countered. He had enough on his mind. Mystic stamped his foot as Jaron swung into the saddle. “You’re just like Imogen.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“On the contrary, I’m only stating a fact. Market day technically is starting before the Morning of the Saints.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Too many holidays, too little time. I’d like to take a nap for a month or two.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mott clicked at his mare, leading the way out of the courtyard. “You’re doing a good job, Jaron. There’s a lot to deal with, and you’re doing your best.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Thanks,” he mumbled._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He didn’t want to admit how much he valued Mott’s approval._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron uttered a silent prayer of thanks; he’d left his circlet behind, which meant he didn’t need to nod at each person who bowed to him. The streets were almost crammed, but not enough to render travel useless._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You know, I’ve been thinking about all of these holidays,” Jaron grinned. “Maybe I should set aside a day where I can forget about my duties and remain calm.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“There’s nothing stopping you from doing that now,” Mott guided his horse a few steps closer to Jaron. A carriage thundered past._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________They were nearing the middle level of Drylliad, it wouldn’t be long until they were at the lower levels. Feall would have to be there somewhere._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You know what, you’re absolutely right.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I typically am, people don’t like listening.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“That’s because your version of ‘right’ isn’t nearly as fun as mine.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Strange, I’d thought my version of ‘right’ was better than yours because it typically means you don’t return to the castle with a black eye.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron inhaled deeply and leaned as far back as he could, his face turned to the sky. He couldn’t think of a response, as Mott’s argument couldn’t be countered without sounding like a blithering fool. Instead, he groaned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“That’s what I thought,” Mott chuckled._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Children with bandages on their feet darted across the cobblestones, chasing after a striped lizard. A woman’s fashionable right boot flew through the air, caught by a pair of grubby child’s hands. Girls in tattered red rags waved from shattered windows. Lower Drylliad was often forgotten by nobles._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________They didn’t want to get their hands dirty._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Didn’t want to help those born into a pigpen._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mott sat a little straighter in his saddle. “This seems more like Roden’s route.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I think they switched patrol times,” Jaron racked his brain as he struggled to remember the last time Roden had told him about what he was up to. “With Feall patrolling during the day, it keeps him safe from his attacker. And Roden was very keen on being able to spend his afternoons either beating me at sparring or teaching Nila how to properly use a sword.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Probably makes it easier to avoid you, too.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Very true, which isn’t really that great, as I’ve been meaning to-,” Jaron gagged, “-apologize to him.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Consider me impressed, I know how much you hate doing that.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Feall wasn’t far ahead, his jacket rested on his shoulders, dirt stained his white shirt. He waved. A large man with a full scarlet beard was gently tossing some of the children into the air. Jaron recognized him; Commander Regar was too massive to forget_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Have you come to visit me?” Feall joked. “Commander, show some respect to the king.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Regar nodded his head to Jaron and Mott, nodded to the children he’d been throwing, and stood by Feall._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________A man sized like Regar would have no problems holding his own against three men._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“We did, but unfortunately, I forgot to bring you flowers,” Jaron wiped away an imaginary tear. “Have you had any trouble, Feall?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He shook his head, “Not exactly, I did have to separate a pair of urchins as they fought over a shoe.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Regar gave no comment, which annoyed Jaron to no end._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________What was it with people and not reacting to anything?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Was it a woman’s shoe?” asked Mott, gesturing to the howling children several steps away._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Yes, yes it was. I suppose if they aren’t bashing heads into the ground over it, they can play with it. Did you really come to check in on me, or is there something wrong?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron frowned, “Have you done something wrong?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ha! Regar coughed! That was almost as good as a biting comment!_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Not that I can think of,” a strand of long, dark hair fell across Feall’s forehead._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Then we came strictly to check in on you, I’d hate to see a friend of mine come to harm. Again.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mott scoffed something about friends and harm, but his statement was almost too quiet to hear._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Feall raised his eyebrows, “Is that true?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Is what true?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Am I your friend, King Jaron?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I suppose so. Be careful, though, I do have bold requests of my friends. Mott thinks they’re ‘a danger to everyone’, and that I’m ‘going to chip somebody’s tooth’,” Jaron made sure to look Mott in the eye as he said so. “Consider yourself invited the next time I try to use a shield as a sled.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I’ll make sure to be-,” Feall stood straight, his sentence trailing off._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Your Majesty, you may want to get away from here,” Regar muttered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________There were no more children shrieks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________His hand was resting on his sword hilt seconds after he recognized the unnatural quiet. Jaron squinted at the alley nearest to him, struggling to decide if the shadow he saw was because of a pile of trash or a lurking person._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Where’s your horse, Feall?” Jaron murmured, his eyes locked on the shadow._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Tied up in a stable, wasn’t in the mood to have her stolen from me,” Feall slowly unsheathed his sword. “I’m sure there’s a reason for the sudden silence.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron rolled his shoulders back, “I’ll dismount, Mystic won’t fit both of us.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________His feet hit the solid cobblestones, the sound echoing across the street. The only sound accompanying them through the streets was the constant clip-clop of horses’ hooves._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________What a foolish idea, riding out to lower Drylliad._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________What an even more foolish idea, letting Feall continue to patrol the streets despite having a target on his back._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________A familiar sensation bubbled in his stomach. He’d grown up on tales of witches and their poisonous brews. Perhaps there was a tiny witch hiding inside him, using his insides as ingredients for her malicious magics._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Every so often, Jaron glanced back over his shoulder. There were too many things that could’ve caused the sudden wave of silence. Too many reasons why the street was suddenly lifeless. There were no girls in red waving from their windows, no children throwing discarded boots at each other, and no men with dirty blindfolds begging for money._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It was bad news when children hid._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It was even worse when the beggars vanished._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mott scanned each alley. Jaron looked over his shoulder. Feall checked both sides of the street._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________But nobody looked ahead to see the patched bandit in front of them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“A pity, you should’ve told me there was a gathering!” Called out the patched Faola. His voice was rougher than before, and his saber looked a little worse for wear. “I’ve been told I’m the life of the party!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jaron’s hand shot out, gripping Feall’s upper arm as hard as he could.“Don’t do anything stupid.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I know it’s you, Mireldis Thay!” Feall stepped forward, breaking out of Jaron’s grasp. “I had my doubts, but your foolish note to Oberson confirmed my suspicions!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I wear only my name, and nobody else’s.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Feall’s face fell._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The Faola bowed, “Your Majesty, Sir Mott, I humbly ask that you step away. This is, well, a matter of personal business. Don’t take offense when I say I don’t know you well enough to clash swords with the pair of you two.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I have to humbly ask _you _to step away,” Jaron countered. “It’s rude that you haven’t told me your name yet, I’m reduced to calling you Patches as your friend Ayvar does. Patches is the name for a household cat, not a sadistic murderer.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Sadistic? You’d see things differently if you asked the right questions.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Mott dismounted as the banter continued, he too had drawn his sword. “What right questions?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Questions like-,” the Faola shrugged, his hood drawn low over his face. “Questions like why- ah, they don’t matter. Nothing will distract me from my chosen path.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Disappointing, I do love to talk,” Jaron frowned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Coincidentally, I do too when the cards are right.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Then maybe we should deal out new hands.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It was unnerving, watching the Faola press a hand to his stomach and cackle. “You can’t get a new hand in this game.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Says who?” Jaron dug his foot into the cobblestones, risking a tiny glance at Mott._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The Faola only appeared to be one person, it was all too likely that there were multiple hiding in the alleys. There was a tiny chance that Roden had begun patrol early, and would come galloping to the sounds of a sword fight._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________However, that had already worked once, and it was unlikely that the Devils wanted to play the same trick._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Buy time,” Mott hissed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jaron stepped forwards again, “I don’t know your quarrel with Lord Feall, but I won’t let you shed any more blood in my city.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Was it a coincidence that the Faola took a step back each time Jaron took one forward?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“You’re no king of mine,” barked the bandit._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Then why are you retreating?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned the Faola’s subtle retreat. The Faola roared, and flung himself forward, his saber moving with blinding speed. Jaron bellowed back and parried one of the Faola’s blows._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Though the saber was a slimmer weapon, the Faola’s tendency to leap out of the way kept Jaron from landing any debilitating blows. He lunged forward, and the Faola scurried backwards. With his sword raised, Jaron gathered his strength, preparing to sweep across the Faola’s middle._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________That would put an end to things._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Feall and Mott were rushing to assist him. Regar, however, stood by Mystic and Mott’s horse, watching the fight from afar._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He wasn’t expecting it when the Faola pressed the inner curve of his saber to his leather gauntlet, and charged forward._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jaron brought his sword crashing down on the Faola’s saber, locking both of their blades together. Mott and Feall were almost near enough to land a-_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The world around him turned to pudding. Where was Commander Regar? Where was his mighty longsword and his skull crushing hands?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The Faola had delivered a sharp kick to Jaron’s upper right leg, sending stars across his vision. Where was Commander Regar? Where was his mighty longsword and his skull crushing hands?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“The King!” Feall shouted. “Mott! Regar! Get the King!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I can hold-!” Jaron tried standing on his right leg, but the overwhelming urge to vomit his entire day’s worth of food forced him into a loss._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Regar bounded away from the horses, his longsword in both of his huge hands. The Faola only ducked under his mighty arms, and did his best to strike a blow at Feall._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The Faola froze at the sight of Regar, the tip of his saber clinked against the ground._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Mott held his sword extended as he dragged Jaron back to Mystic, “We have to get you out of here!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Let me go!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“You hold priority!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“That doesn’t mean anything!” Jaron roared, shoving himself away from Mott. If he just stood with all of his weight on his left leg, he could still fight!_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________All it took was a step closer to Feall and the Faola to make his vision burst with white lights._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The world had turned to jelly, to pudding, to sludge. All Jaron knew was that he no longer retained a crisp sense of the air around him. Everything was too warm, too sticky._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________His hair was sticking to his forehead. His insides were sticking to each other. His hands were sticking to his sword._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Was he going to be sick all over Mott?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The sword fell from his hands; Mott was shoving him onto Mystic. Bits of conversation drifted through his cotton hearing. He could sometimes see Feall and the Faola’s outlines against his holy-white vision._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It was almost like they were dancing together._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Feall was ever the gentleman, allowing the Faola to always strike at his head. He always returned the gesture with a hard swipe to the Faola’s middle._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“This is a bit-!” Feall ducked. “Below the-!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The Faola jabbed his sword low, and sadly, Jaron didn’t catch the last part of Feall’s witty retort._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He clung to Mystic’s reigns, his eyes searching for Mott. The whiteness was fading, replaced with unnatural blues._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Mott would guide him to safety. Mott would keep him safe._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Jaron, ride ahead,” Mott urged. “Keep it slow, I’m going to get Feall out of his mess. Blink if you-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jaron didn’t need to blink, he only urged Mystic forward and tried not to vomit into his own lap._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Horse hooves clattered against the pavement in an odd compliment to clashing swords. Somebody was ordering Mott away; ordering him to consider himself and that he’d only make the close fighting quarters even tighter._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The Faola ducked beneath feall’s blade, twirling away from both Mott and Feall like a little girl in a new dress. Sounds of battle were dying. The fight was a music box, twinkling down to its last plink of a note._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Mystic tottered forward._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Straining, Jaron peered over his shoulder, looking just in time to see the music box’s final plink._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The Faola swiped the saber across Feall’s chest, missed, and kicked him in the stomach. Feall went tumbling to the ground. The Faola stood above his opponent, gloating words lost to Jaron’s pudding hearing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________But it was Regar who earned the last plink._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Tossing his sword to the side, Regar barrelled into the Faola. “Get them to safety! I’ll cover you!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Let me go!” The Faola shrieked, pounding his fists against Regar’s back_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Regar let the Faola slide down his back. The Faola anticipated the fall, and rolled to his sword. He swung as hard as he could, but Regar caught the saber blade with his gloved hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Mott tugged Feall onto his saddle, leaving the Faola to his fate._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________A sad finale to a short dance between Feall and his lethal partner. Jaron leaned over and vomited. He didn’t hear whatever it was that Mott was saying as he limped them all back to the castle._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________All he could think about was that dance of life and death. It was a dance he’d performed himself. He’d seen somebody dance that way before- all jumping and twirling. The dancer’s name was just out of his reach. Knowing that the name was there was enough._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________They were strange musings, but it was worth it to avoid vomiting again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It was the musings of a man in too much pain to see straight._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	14. Chapter 14

The atrium was large enough for a group of people, but small enough not to feel empty. Shelves lined the round walls, and the ceiling was made entirely out of glass. Plants, books, and small collected trinkets rested in odd places. Couches and padded chairs of all designs had been placed strategically around the massive fireplace. A massive rug kept the chairs a safe distance from the fire, which illuminated a series of paintings.

It was a treasure among the castle’s numerous libraries.

Renlyn had been responsible for most of the furnishings. She'd managed to turn a stern room into one of the most favorite places in the castle for Jaron’s inner circle.

"That's nice," Tobias said, gesturing to the book covers Amarinda, Imogen, and Renlyn were embroidering. 

Imogen’s creampuff of a kitten opened a single green eye, stared at Tobias, and settled back against Imogen’s arm.

"Thank you, I suppose, but my embroidery has always been severely lacking," Amarinda teased, holding up her mediocre book cover. "I refuse to give up." 

"I think you've improved," muttered Renlyn.

Amarinda feigned offense as everyone in the room began nodding.

Tobias kept his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out of the tower window. He kept hearing pieces of Amarinda’s conversation, but couldn’t contribute.

It was an unspoken pact that each time there was a regents’ meeting, Amarinda and Imogen would gather all information possible, and discuss it with each other while they tended to their needlework. Renlyn had been invited, but no husbands were allowed to participate.

Eventually, Tobias earned the right to be in the same room during a needlepoint session, and did his best not to encroach on the discussions.

"Very true, I still remember some of your earliest designs," Imogen yawned.

"Play fair, I was a child at one point."

"As were we all,” Imogen mused. “Except Renlyn, I suppose"

“I emerged from the womb fully grown, it’s true.”

Amarinda snorted, and pulled her needle free from its thread. She frowned. “I do wish I’d stop doing that.”

“Perhaps you should consider a longer tail?” Renlyn gestured to the long thread dangling from her own needle.

“Be careful with a longer tail, it sometimes causes the string to knot,” added Imogen.

Tobias, who didn’t know much about the art of embroidery, turned to one of the shelves. His practice fippler stared at him from its dusty pedestal.

Several weeks ago, Jolly had made his home in one of the many rooms in the castle, and offered to teach Tobias the fippler.

However, Tobias was a natural disaster when it came to certain instruments, and he made no point in practicing after Jolly left to perform for a Lord’s daughter’s wedding in the northwest corner of Carthya. The fippler knew Tobias’s sin.

He picked it up, and wriggled some of the pieces. Tobias blew a series of extremely off key notes through the mouthpiece. Imogen’s cat hissed and ran beneath her skirts.

The cringe he wore rivaled the crown of garbage that adorned some of the Vault entrances.

In practicing the fippler, Tobias failed to notice how close Amarinda, Renlyn, and Imogen had gotten. The veil and circlet Renlyn wore over her hair hid both Renlyn’s and Imogen’s faces. Amarinda drew her head back from the secret conversation, a smile on her face.

Don’t eavesdrop, don’t eavesdrop, don’t eavesdrop.

Ah! He could quietly play the fippler and look at all of the trinkets on the shelves. Many of them weren’t Carthyan, and even more of them had been made by Jaron, Imogen, and Fink.

The most beautiful image was a bird made from the outline of a hand, the thumb outline served as a head, and the other four outlined fingers served as colorful feathers. Jaron’s signature took up the entire bottom portion of the image.

Tobias flinched as a loud, pitchy squeal escaped from the fippler.

All members of the embroidery trio looked at him. His ears burned.

Jolly was going to kill him for abusing the instrument.

Unable to continue mistreating the fippler, for both his sanity, the women’s sanity, and the fippler’s sanity, Tobias set the instrument down on another shelf. He’d have to pick up practicing later.

Tobias took a step onto the rug and turned around himself. Shelves of books, bottled flowers, angry wooden knights Roden and Jaron used to throw at each other; the atrium was filled with hints of his friends.

Without the fippler, Tobias wasn’t distracted from Amarinda’s conversation.

He couldn’t stop himself from catching strings of phrases.

Certain words stuck out; words like “Blackberry Night”, and “Mandatory”.

Don’t intrude, Tobias, don’t intrude. They invited him to be in the same room because he didn’t feel the need to stick his nose into their business.

“- it wouldn’t be difficult,” Renlyn chuckled. “The decorations can be reused.”

Amarinda hummed, “But do they match our preferred color palette?”

“Do the colors even need to match the color palette?” Imogen asked.

Don’t intrude, don’t intrude.

Both Renlyn and Amarinda gasped, and then shushed each other.

All three of them were plotting. Tobias peered over his shoulder, only to make eye contact with Amarinda. He flung his gaze back to the window and prayed his flushed face would soon return to normal.

“Tobias?” Amarinda wore a charming smile. “Do you want to join our circle?”

“I thought I’d never get an invit-! Yes, I would love to join your circle, I appreciate your offer,” he said, bowing his head ever so slightly.

“I brought up Jaron’s stance on Blackberry Night,” Imogen explained. She and Renlyn inched away from Amarinda. “We decided we’ll take care of the party ourselves.”

“Thank you,” Tobias said as he sat down by Amarinda, grateful for the space Renlyn and Imogen had made for him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He recognized the proud look on Renlyn’s face. It was the look of a woman who knew how much power she had. The corner of her mouth turned up, the closest to a smile Tobias had ever seen from her. “Not exactly. I’ll be providing decorations for the castle. We’ve decided that we’ll require a series of colors for everyone to wear; the decision to host Blackberry Night has been a little short notice, and a lot of nobles wouldn’t be able to find something new to wear in time.”

“Ah, I see. I suppose I can help get the word out.”

Amarinda nodded, “I’ve agreed to help set up the decorations.”

“Our goal is to set up as much as we can before Jaron notices,” Imogen explained. “He puts a lot on his shoulders, and it’s only fair that we help him.”

“And I’m the one paying for Blackberry Night, not the crown, so our lovely king and queen don’t need to worry about the cost,” Renlyn sat a little straighter.

Sometimes Tobias forgot just how much wealth the Karises had. Renlyn didn’t enjoy discussing her assets outside of a business transaction.

“How long will it take you to get the decorations here?” Amarinda asked, setting her embroider on her lap.

Renlyn smirked, “Not very long at all, I have a residence not far from here, and I can always rent.”

Tobias tilted his head, “What exactly do you want to see done?”

“Trellises, blackberries hanging from the ceiling. I’d very much like Blackberry Night to look like a dream.”

“A dream? Amarinda is an expert when it comes to creating an atmosphere, you won’t be disappointed, Lady Ren.”

“Oh, I know, and if I am, I’ll redo everything by myself.”

She continued to explain that she wanted the magic of the party to stretch out as far as it could. Those who weren’t nobility would have their own rustic celebrations, and Renlyn wanted to be able to experience that same concept without having to take a tumble through leech filled mud. An army of farmers were awaiting her call to bring harvested berries and branches to the castle.

The entire castle was to be decorated, and it needed to be at least halfway done before Jaron returned from checking in on Feall.

Something was nagging at the back of Tobias’s mind.

Something important.

“Renlyn, how can you even afford this?” He asked, racking his brain for everything he knew about the Karises.

It wasn’t much.

She waved her hand, “I know how to make a profit.”

A profit. Tobias wrinkled his nose, there had to be more to it than that.

He wondered if the current unrest following the name Mireldis Thay had anything to do with Lady Renlyn Karise.

No amount of courage could motivate Tobias to blurt that out to the world.

“So it’s settled, we’re setting up as much as we can over the next two hours?” Imogen asked, a devilish glint sparkling in her tea-colored eyes.

“Oh, absolutely,” Renlyn winked. “Call in the page outside, I’ll send word to my staff. They’ll be excited to get involved.”

“I do have to recommend that we bring in fake pools. Queen Danika did that for her daughter’s birthday, and they were quite popular,” said Amarinda as she reached for Tobias’s hand.

“That-, that really would add a little extra something to Blackberry Night.”

Tobias grinned as he pictured Renlyn’s splendid plan for Blackberry Night. He’d always avoided participating in Blackberry Night while he was younger; many people used Blackberry Night to drink barrels and barrels of bees wine and lead wild hunts for fairies. It was a fool’s holiday, but a welcome one.

A tradition among young couples was to take a bouquet of flowers, wrap them together, and write a secret wish to tie to the wrapping. You’d take the bouquet and your secret wish with you to one of the many dances, find your partner, and hold onto the bouquet as you danced to light jigs and reels. The longer you held onto your bouquet, the more likely your wish would come true.

When the church bells rung at midnight, you and your partner would rush to the Roving River, and throw your bouquet into the water.

It was your choice whether or not you’d tell your wish to your partner.

Although in certain cases, certain wishes could be fulfilled during the remainder of Blackberry Night. Typically, these wishes led to rushed weddings and a series of babies born in the spring.

“Excited for Blackberry Night, love?” Amarinda asked, reaching over to brush her fingers over Tobias’s curls.

“We’ll see, I might have to tend to the drunken nobles who’ll try to punch their way through stained glass,” Tobias snickered. He looked back at Amarinda, studying her every feature. “Although. . . I do know of a few favors I can call in if needed.”

“I’d like that; I’d hate to be stuck with Roden as a dance partner again.”

“Why? Does he step on your toes?”

She laughed, “He’s a skilled dancer, surprisingly enough, but he’s not my husband.”

Tobias reached for Amarinda’s hand, and kissed her fingers, “I’ll pull strings, you’ll have a dance partner for Blackberry Night.”

“Then I’ll find a bouquet of flowers to throw.”

“Does that mean you’re writing the wish this year?”

“Absolutely,” Amarinda smiled. “And I won’t tell you what it is.”

“Are you sure?” Tobias stuck his bottom lip out as far as he could.

“You won’t get a single word out of me.”

The bounce of her red-brown curls captured all of Tobias’s attention as she threw back her head to laugh. Amarinda was a creature of grace and poise, and Tobias couldn’t stand the thought of his life without her.

Somebody was calling his name- probably Renlyn.

He didn’t care.

He could spend an eternity watching every flick of Amarinda’s hands.

The conversation continued without him.

“Right, as I was saying,” Renlyn wrinkled her nose. “My workers will be here within the hour. Amarinda, you’re welcome to include Tobias in decorating the main hall. Imogen, I take it you can handle the cooks?”

Imogen nodded, “They’ll be more than happy to spite Jaron in a way that won’t get them into serious trouble.”

“I suppose that’s good.”

“To clarify, we’ve decided on creams, pinks, and golds for the dress code?” Amarinda asked, excitement sparkling through her hands.

Tobias could sense the energy she carried.

He waited for Renlyn’s confirmation, and shared a smile with Amarinda. A ball was much needed at Drylliad. They’d be able to dance around the floor and forget the Faola, Mireldis Thay, and Oberson’s meddling hands for a few hours.

They’d be able to throw a bouquet and a secret wish into the Roving River and hope it comes true.

There were a handful of wishes always lingering in the back of Tobias’s mind, but he knew eventually their time would come.

It was a matter of being patient.

“Do you, ah,” Amarinda’s voice dropped. “Want to find a nice corner with me?”

“A nice corner? We’re in a nice- oh! That kind of corner!” Tobias chuckled, his ears burning as he realized what Amarinda was hinting at.

“I take that as a yes?”

“It better not be a corner where I can see you,” Renlyn gagged. “So childish.”

Renlyn’s obvious discomfort at the possibility of catching Tobias and Amarinda tenderly wrapped in an embrace drew a series of giggles from Imogen. She smiled, “It’s only childish if you get caught. I strictly remember seeing you with-“

“That’s not important!”

“Does Renlyn have a secret admirer?” Amarinda widened her eyes, plastering a mask of utter shock on her features.

“I most certainly do not! I have better things to do with my time!”

“Kissing is a good thing to do when you have the time,” Tobias teased. “Especially when you have the right partner, speaking of which. . .”

Renlyn jumped to her feet, “Don’t! No, no, no! I don’t want to see that!”

Tobias pressed a kiss to Amarinda’s nose, “See this?”

“No, I think she means this,” Amarinda explained, leaning in to kiss Tobias’s smile.

The cry of frustration Renlyn made only made Imogen laugh harder, which made Amarinda laugh, and then lead to Tobias’s burst of laughter too. Renlyn stood up, embroidery in hand, and bowed.

“I’ll be meeting with my staff, send a page if you have any questions,” she spat. “And if I find out the decorations aren’t taken care of because the two of you are off in a corner unable to keep your hands to yourselves, I’ll-”

“It’s alright, Ren, we’re just teasing you,” Amarinda’s laughter was contagious, her smile lit up the room.

“Whatever, I’m trusting you to stick to your duties.”

“And I promise neither Tobias nor I will disappoint.”

“Is this the conclusion to Drylliad’s first party planning committee meeting?” Imogen asked, laughter twinkling in her eyes.

“Consider this meeting adjourned, we’ll return to further discuss our plans in a few hours’ time,” Renlyn bowed her head, clasped her hands behind her back, and left the atrium

“Party planning committee?” Tobias couldn’t contain his laughter.

Imogen shrugged, “We needed an official name, ‘Sisters of the Book Embroidery Circle and Tobias’ doesn’t really work.”

“Does this mean we’re going to go behind Jaron’s back when he says he’ll think about throwing parties?” Amarinda wrinkled her nose. “I’m in, especially if party funds come from our purses rather than Carthya’s.”

Amarinda was proving her promise to Renlyn only half an hour later; after she and Tobias had finished in their private corner of course.

Tobias had witnessed battle firsthand, he’d been subject to various types of terrors, and he’d seen many a grisly sight while working with the royal physician.

His precious wife had the strength of a military commander when it came to planning a party.

Her troops were the artisans and servants standing at her feet. Half of them held themselves like cornered mice, and the other half gawked at Amarinda. Her ability to capture any crowd’s attention was a talent not many people had.

“My lady, traditionally, Blackberry Night is much less detailed,” explained a larger gentleman.

Tobias wasn’t exactly sure what position the large gentleman held.

“No, no,” Amarinda shook her head. “I don’t think you understand, it’s vital that we stick to pinks, golds, and creams. This should be treated like a gala, not a barn dance.”

He wasn’t quite sure what to add, Amarinda was handling the situation on her own. He’d rather remain silent than hold her back.

So he watched his wife command her troops. 

Amarinda motioned for several servants carrying baskets of brambles to stand before her. She instructed them to put the brambles around the base of every column in the great hall. With that taken care of, Amarinda began instructing the next group.

Watching her was fascinating. Tobias continued to stand behind her, watching as the great hall slowly began its transformation.

When he was younger, his grandmother brought him wondrous books of fairies and knights. Tobias could remember that one of the books was painted, and bore pictures of a magnificent fairy kingdom.

By the time Renlyn, Amarinda, and Imogen were done with the castle, Tobias was certain he’d see that fairy kingdom in person.

“Do you think Renlyn will take care of the lights? She didn’t give me specific instructions, and I’d hate to mess up her grand vision,” Amarinda said, reaching back for Tobias’s hand.

“I think it’s alright,” he shrugged. “She trusts you enough to do this.”

Was it wrong that Tobias was slightly shocked that Renlyn was even allowing Amarinda, Imogen, and himself to help with her plans? 

He’d grown to be on better terms with her, but Tobias knew how important order was to Lady Renlyn Karise. Trusting others to maintain that order wasn’t always an easy choice.

Tobias would know. He’d rather do things on his own than trust the other physician’s apprentices to do the same task.

The front doors burst open, and a trio of men stumbled in.

Odd, Roden and his friends rarely slurred around drunk during the day. Was that Mott with them? 

Tobias rolled his eyes, returning his attention to Amarinda and the task at hand. It wasn’t his responsibility to limp Roden and whoever else up to their rooms. They were grown men, and Tobias didn’t want to play nursemaid any longer.

“By the Saints-,” Amarinda gasped, shooing the servants away. “Tobias, Tobias! Look!”

“It’s only Roden, I think he managed to drag Mott to a tavern this time,” he waved his hand.

Amarinda’s voice went small, “That’s Jaron, Tobias, not Roden.”

It clicked into place, almost. The realization wasn’t quite there, similar to the way not every toy’s pieces fit together when assembled by a child.

Roden was shoving his way through the small crowd that had gathered around Mott, and was pushing them back as Harlowe ducked under Jaron’s arm. Feall had his arm wrapped around his torso, supported by Mott. 

Vomit stained Jaron’s trousers. 

His skin was paler than the freshly washed sheets out in the courtyard. 

Tobias recognized the lines of pain on Jaron’s face. The creases in between his brows grew deeper as Jaron fought off tears. Jaron didn’t have any outer injuries.

This was much worse.

“Get him upstairs!” Tobias barked, his voice not his own. “Mott, tell me what happened, spare me no details.”

“Faola attack,” Mott grunted, and transferred half of Feall’s weight to Roden’s outstretched arms. “He was asking for Feall, Jaron attacked, the Faola got a kick at Jaron’s right leg and sent him straight down. Commander Regar managed to hold the Faola off long enough to escape, but Feall is sporting an-”

“Take care of the king!” Feall growled. “I was foolish to trust you Carthyans with this matter, and now Regar is dead!”

Roden was practically carrying Feall, “Did you see Regar fall?”

Mott shook his head, “Regar is in danger, Roden, I can handle carrying Feall up to the physician’s chambers, but you need to save Regar. Check by the Vaults, lower Drylliad.”

“Don’t let either of them die, Tobias,” Roden grunted. “I’ll be back.”

Faces of shock passed. Tobias ordered the physician’s apprentices out of the chamber, and instantly began shuffling through herbs and poultices. Imogen soon joined him, and began grinding various herbs into powder.

She was pouring the mixture down Jaron’s throat within seconds.

Tobias began patting down Jaron’s ankle, checking for broken bones. He couldn’t see any evidence of breakage, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any damage.

“Imogen?” Tobias asked, gesturing to Jaron’s thigh. “Any breaks?”

She shook her head, “None that I can feel. Hand me a knife, I can cut through the trouser leg.”

“You’re being awfully calm.”

“My anger is balancing my hysteria, Tobias. I promise you’ll see my temper very soon.”

Her threat carried too much weight. 

Her tea-colored eyes so full of kindness turned to stone all too easily.

“Come- come here,” Jaron murmured, sweat trailing down his temples. “Imogen-.”

“Keep quiet, I promise I’ll listen,” Imogen swore, she quietly gestured to the shears on Tobias’s worktable.

Shears in hand, Tobias began cutting away Jaron’s trouser leg, tossing aside the vomit covered fabric each time he finished with it.

“I know- I know who- ah!”

“Sorry, found the bruise,” Tobias choked, gesturing to the foot sized shadow on Jaron’s thigh.

He’d never heard Imogen swear that profusely before.

“The Faola did this to you?” Imogen murmured, her hands balling into fists.

“I suppose he didn’t like my sense of-,” Jaron coughed. “My sense of humor. But that’s not what I need to-”

Tobias frowned at Jaron’s bruise, “He needs to stop talking.”

“I think I know who Mireldis Thay is!” 

“Imogen, he’s getting delirious-”

“Let me speak To- ow!” Jaron flung his head back against his pillow. “Curse this-!”

Jaron’s forehead was slightly warmer than usual, but not dangerously hot. His ramblings cut through the chamber as Tobias left Imogen at Jaron’s bedside, and returned with a damp cloth for Jaron’s forehead. 

He once again swore that he knew who Mireldis Thay was.

“Where’s Ren?” rasped Jaron.

“She’s busy,” Tobias said. “And you need to rest. Your leg is bruised, but not broken. You’re to lay low for the next few days.”

“There’s too much to do!” 

“You’ll have to trust us to take care of it then. We’ll put on Blackberry Night in your absence.”

“Tobias!”

“Imogen’s in on it too!”

That earned him a pair of angry glares. Imogen frowned, and dabbed at Jaron’s forehead, “You need to lay back, Jaron. Can you do that for me?”

The fire in Jaron’s eyes was clouded with pain, even Tobias could see that. He grumbled a complaint, but finally settled back into the pillows.

Mott lingered in the back of the chamber, and gestured for Tobias.

Imogen had finally managed to capture Jaron’s attention. His gaze was glued to her face. Every so often, Imogen brushed a stray curl from his damp forehead.

They didn’t need Tobias’s company. 

“Do you think Regar will be alright?” Tobias asked as he stood next to Mott. He pressed a hand over his heart, hoping the motion would force himself to calm down.

“Count to ten, time sped up for a moment,” Mott murmured. “Does it always feel that rushed when somebody comes needing medical attention?”

One, two, three. . .Tobias inhaled. Four, five, six. . . Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out.

The stakes were different in Jaron’s case because not only was he Tobias’s friend, he was also the king. Jaron’s survival was the highest priority.

Death was unpredictable, and Tobias only had his mind to combat it.

“Yes and no,” he shrugged. “Sometimes the patient is too far gone, and sometimes the rush of the moment slows to a still. I always carry extra concern for Jaron; you never know what kind of trouble he gets into.”

“Where is Feall?” Mott scratched the back of his bald head.

“Another chamber, we typically keep patients in separate spaces, keeps things clean and tidy.”

Tobias pinched the bridge of his nose, his heart had finally calmed. 

A lone Faola had attacked four men, if Mott’s report was true. The Faola challenged not only Feall, but Mott, Regar, and the king of Carthya.

Two of those four were left wounded.

Roden would be returning soon with word about the third.

“Jaron’s claiming that he knows who Mireldis Thay is,” Tobias noted. 

“Not quite sure how he figured that out, or where he got the time,” said Mott. He inhaled. “Is he going to be alright?”

If Tobias’s assumption was right, and the only damage Jaron sustained was that large bruise on his leg, everything would be fine.

But things rarely worked out in Tobias’s favor. 

He rolled his shoulders forward ever so slightly, his mind winding through layers and layers of ignored findings. The Faola had attacked Feall so long ago, and Tobias had to stand in Roden’s way.

His kindness had brought harm to Jaron, his closest friend.

This was his fault.

“I can see your guilt, Tobias,” Mott muttered. He frowned, “This is out of your control.”

“But I was there, Mott, I was there during the first attack. I couldn’t let somebody die, and now Jaron’s tossing on a medical cot because of it!”

Tobias flinched at his own words.

He hadn’t meant to grow so frustrated.

Had they been wrong in pushing aside Mireldis Thay? Did she have more to do with the Faola? Was Feall right in fearing her every move?

Was Oberson’s irrational fear of Lady Thay really that irrational?

Imogen chuckled lightly, she was holding Jaron’s hand. His eyes had finally closed. 

“There’s something I-,” Jaron paused to heave in a breath. “Tobias, you need to do something for me.”

“Promise me you’ll rest and I’ll consider it,” Tobias countered.

Jaron’s ghostly smile didn’t belong on his exhausted face. “I need you to ask questions for me.”

\--------------------------------

The great hall had changed in the few hours Tobias had tended to Jaron. Renlyn’s staff was all too talented at quietly setting up for a ball.

He doubted that this was the first time she’d set something up like this.

It was easy, slipping through the crowds of servants rushing to fulfill Renlyn’s requests. Tobias usually didn’t sneak. There wasn’t a reason to suspect him of everything.

But this time was different.

This time, he was sneaking around for Jaron. His instructions were clear.

Jaron insisted that a certain troubadour knew more than he let on. It was this realization that led to Jaron’s bruised leg, he was sure of it.

Jolly would be hiding at the Dragon’s Keep, singing bawdy songs and asking for garlins. 

It was Tobias’s duty to get Jolly to share crucial information.

Tobias? A spy? 

It was bad enough sneaking around trying to find murky answers, but it was worse knowing that Jaron _expected _a handful of murky answers.__

__The Dragon’s Keep was more crowded than usual. Tobias crossed his arms as he slipped in, dodging as many flying fists as he could._ _

__The bright orange jerkin was the first thing he saw. Jolly was slumped in a corner booth, his lute at his side._ _

__“Not who I was expecting, Lord Branch,” Jolly smirked. He gestured to the open seat across from him. “I’m only a little disappointed, but you’re welcome to take a seat.”_ _

__“Who were you hoping for?” Tobias muttered, sitting down across from Jolly. He shook his head when a barmaid offered to bring him a drink._ _

__“A king, I suppose.”_ _

__“Jaron?”_ _

__“Be more creative.”_ _

__“Oberson?”_ _

__“Closer, but not quite.”_ _

__Games, games. Tobias pinched his nose, “Jaron was attacked today, he was trying to keep an eye out for Feall.”_ _

__“He’s meddling,” Jolly called over a barmaid, asking for another drink. “You caught me at a bad time, I’m frustrated and raging drunk.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Friends, I suppose. I love my friend with my whole heart, but she’s going down a path I will not follow.”_ _

__Ah ha! Jolly had left a door open for questions. Tobias leaned his elbows on the table, trying his best not to seem too eager. “What’s her name?”_ _

__“Wouldn’t you like to know, doctor boy?”_ _

__“I would, actually.”_ _

__“It’s not my story to tell, I’m sorry,” Jolly took his fresh tankard, and drained as much liquid as he could._ _

__It wasn’t his story to tell. A friend was going down an unfollowable path. A lute was playing, and a man’s low voice rang through the hushing crowd. Jaron had hummed the song multiple times throughout the week._ _

__Ingrithay._ _

__Tobias smacked his forehead, cursing himself for forgetting vital history lessons with his wife late at night. Ingrid Thay. Ingri. Ingri Thay._ _

__Ingrithay._ _

__“Ingrithay is about the queen of Idunn Craich, isn’t it? Queen Ingrid Thay, wife of Graer Thay, stepmother to Mireldis Thay. You’ve been dropping clues.”_ _

__Jolly threw back his head and laughed, “I’ve been dropping clues!?! I’ve thrown them to you as best I can, but I will not tell the story. It is against what I do; if I can’t keep a secret, I can’t keep my head.”_ _

__“I’m a member of Queen Danika’s family, you can-”_ _

__“Through marriage, Lord Branch,” Jolly corrected._ _

__“That still holds, you can tell me. You have nothing to fear. I know you know who Mireldis Thay is, and I want to help. Tell me who she is, and we can-”_ _

__“I love Mireldis Thay more than I fear any king or queen, my Lord. No bargaining in the world would change my stance.”_ _

__Tobias had never seen Jolly’s face so serious before, and frankly, it frightened him. There was no trace of a smile or a musical note._ _

__Nothing but determination._ _

__“Amarinda and I want to-,” Tobias began, but Jolly held up his hand._ _

__“I’ll give you a single hint, but don’t betray my trust, Tobias. There is more to me than music and laughter.”_ _

__More than music and laughter._ _

__He shuddered despite the warmth in the tavern._ _

__Jolly drained the rest of his tankard, and slammed it down. He dragged his hand across his face, “Mireldis Thay has a bone to pick. I won’t help her, and I won’t stop her, but you can do what you can.”_ _

__“Tell me where she is, Jolly,” Tobias grunted. “She attacked the king, didn’t she?”_ _

__“To her, Jaron is a blocking piece. She’s still a princess, despite this all, and you know how royals get.”_ _

__A memory flashed across Tobias’s vision._ _

__A glimpse of a smug, rare smirk._ _

__His heart thudded in his ears, and he was certain he was correct._ _

__But he needed Jolly to say it._ _

__Tobias’s voice was small. Too small. “Mireldis Thay has been living under our noses the entire time, hasn’t she?”_ _

__All it took was the slightest nod of Jolly’s head. “You know her, and I know her. Mireldis has played this game with only one goal in mind, and soon she’ll have her winning move.”_ _

__A rare smirk, a flash of gold hair. Tobias pressed his fists to his eyes._ _

__Mireldis Thay, a fugitive, was serving the queen of Carthya._ _

__And Tobias had left her in the castle, close enough to the king to strike a killing blow._ _

__He tried to ignore Jolly’s chilling laugh as he fled the tavern._ _


	15. Friar's Lantern

The constant drumming of horse hooves was enough of a warning; everyone cleared the streets at the sight of the king’s soldiers marching to lower Drylliad.

Jaron had survived worse than a kick to the leg, and he would survive this attack. Even if the Faola hadn’t intended to kill him, any attempt on the king’s life was considered an act of treason. It was Roden’s calling to see that the perpetrator was captured.

Doors rattled shut. Roden pulled his helmet visor over his eyes; the buildings were becoming less structured, and the alleys were crammed with people trying to stay out of the law’s way.

He didn’t blame the urchins quaking in fear.

Carthyan knights were a fearful sight.

“Lord Thomas Row dispatched members of his army,” said Lieutenant Alistair, his voice muffled by his helmet. “His orders were to sweep the city looking for Regar, just in case we fail to find him.”

Roden shook his head, “I know where Regar will be.”

He’d fought the Faola before, only to turn around and fight with the Faola deep in the Vaults. Roden was sure that he’d find Regar there. The Vaults made for an easy escape, and an easy trap if used correctly.

The Vaults was the Faola’s domain.

Drops of dark liquid stained the cobblestones, and pieces of rotting food had been thrown about. A cart lay on its side. Windows were shut against the cool, twilight air.

“Stay on your guard!” Roden barked as he dismounted.

No matter how many times he wore his full suit of armor, he’d never get used to the jarring sound his boots made when they hit stone.

It was even worse when followed by twelve other pairs of armored knights repeating the same motion.

The entrance to the Vaults gaped at him, eerily similar to how the gates to the Devils’ lair were painted. No messages were hammered to the wooden posts beside the door-less hallway. No words begging for the weary traveler to turn back and find shelter in a safer place.

Stairs descended into hazy blackness, and for a moment, Roden swore he saw movement. He’d been surrounded with night-dark rain the last time he’d come to the Vaults. It was strange to return with a band of his men and a series of torches.

Though there were no messages of certain death, there was a chipped saber discarded a few steps down.

With a wave of his hand, a pair of men rushed forwards, carrying torches larger than a man’s head. There were signs of a recent struggle; bloody trails left by clawing fingers, a series of dusty footprints.

Roden held up his fist as he descended into the first level of the Vaults.

“Captain,” called one of the torch bearers. “We won’t be alone.”

And he was right. The light from the torches were met with the bright beams from mining lamps. Whispers hissed through the air, growing louder and louder with each comment.

“Keep the torches,” Roden ordered. “Use them as weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

The first room was packed with men and women, both masked and unmasked. They lounged in corners and hung from beams. The Faola were too relaxed. Barrels lined the far wall, and mining lamps hung from hooks in the ceiling. Stagnant puddles glimmered. A large man was wrestling a patched bandit. He was speaking in tones too soft to be heard.

Roden was the first to step into the room, he kept his sword extended.

A handful of Faola burst into motion, shoving themselves into a circle in the middle of the room. The others jumped to their feet, swords and daggers drawn. A figure swung down from the ceiling.

He recognized a boy with flaming red hair.

“We understand that there’s been a, ah, situation,” said the boy. He bowed. “We have no quarrel with you, captain, we’re simply peacefully gathering.”

“State your name and business,” Roden countered, stepping aside to let his fellow knights flood the chamber.

“Ulspierre, and my friends and I are here to stage an intervention for a mutual friend. You’re a decent man, Captain Harlowe. My sister speaks highly of you.”

“Cut it with the words, Ulspierre. This goes beyond you.”

Sister. Roden scowled, there’d been a few sisters in the past.

Red hair, hanging around the Vaults. Participating with the Faola.

Ah, Ulspierre was Ayvar’s brother.

A drop of water hit the stone floor, and several more Faola prepared for a fight. Roden tipped his visor up, staring Ulspierre down. It was a simple exchange, a fugitive for peace. Roden wanted the Faola who attacked Jaron, Ulspierre probably didn’t want to die.

It would’ve been easy if Ulspierre gave the Faola up.

“There was an attack on the king,” Roden boomed, taking pride as a few of the Faola flinched. “We know the culprit, and we know he’s involved with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ulspierre scratched the back of his head.

“I didn’t come to-!”

“-Play games, I know. Quite rare, people typically come here to do just that. I know me an’ my Faola friends did.”

Roden kept a firm grip on his temper. There were more of the Faola than his knights, and he didn’t want to cause unnecessary endangerment. Ulspierre wanted to be recognized for helping catch Jaron’s attacker, he’d back down once he got what he wanted.

Or at least that’s what Roden hoped would happen.

A few more of the Faola jumped to a fighting stance, only to be met with the sounds of drawing swords. Ulspierre yawned, and sauntered over to one of the barrels. He spun around, revealing a plain chalice, and pried off a barrel lid. Roden grunted. The Faola hadn't moved, and neither had his soldiers. Ulspierre dipped the chalice in the barrel after he'd filled it with amber liquid.

The front room had been converted during the short time Roden had been away. There were shelves with boxes, shelves with bottles.

Though there weren't nearly as many Faola as he'd seen during the first attack on Feall, there was enough to make up a substantial gang. Roden wondered just how much he'd missed in ignoring the Faola's movements.

"Hand over the Faola," Roden ordered again. "I know you have him."

The sheer lack of respect Ulspierre demonstrated in sipping from his chalice plucked at Roden's fragile grip on his temper. Ulspierre shook his head, "Captain, dear captain, this is about networking. Have you heard the term 'pick your battles'? I'd be surprised if you didn't, you seem like the man who needs that tattooed on his arm."

There was only one mark on Roden's arm that served as a reminder of something.

It still stung him at times.

He said nothing as Ulspierre took another drink. The Faola in the middle shifted; somebody's foot hit somebody else's leg, and the harsh sound of a fist hitting a face cracked through the room.

"I'm not an idiot, Ulspierre," Roden explained. "I'd rather not get my boots stained with blood."

"What a coincidence! Neither would I!"

However, he made no move to give up the Faola.

Roden's gaze flicked about the chamber, compiling as many details as he could. There was a large figure in the middle of the Faola. Each of the barrels were scuffed, as if they'd been moved recently. More than half of the Faola had been caught without their masks on.

Perhaps they truly hadn't been planning on a rogue gang member attacking the king.

Somebody shifted, and every blade started at the sound. A fight was brewing in the air.

It would need to be stopped before it began.

"Tell me-," Roden began again.

"Listen to me!" Ulspierre burst, tossing the chalice aside. "It is the same as it was before! We didn't give names before, we don't know who attacked your king. I do know that he's gotten my sister thrown into a tower, and he's almost gotten us killed _by_ you. _Right_ now."

"Give me the attacker!"

Ulspierre drew a short, crooked blade, "Release us and my sister! We take from those who have too much! We never intended to kill anyone!"

Too many times had he lost his temper and took it out during a sparring session. But this was different, it wasn't a sparring session.

This would soon expand into a matter of life or death.

Roden had too many plans to die at the hand of a bandit.

He could try once again. He could try to mend things before blood spilled. "You won't be touched if you comply, Ulspierre, I promise you that. We’ll forgive your involvement in the attack.”

“Not true,” Ulspierre shrugged. “We had no idea about any attack, your king is good to us, we have no reason to kill him. We’ve been here shuffling barrels all afternoon.”

“Then tell me where your friend is, Ulspierre, and we won’t have any trouble.”

“See, my friend isn’t exactly my responsibility at the moment, he belongs to somebody else.”

“He’s not exactly your friend then, isn’t he?” Roden countered, taking a step towards Ulspierre and the circle of Faola.

Ulspierre’s gloved hands shot up, “It’s my life, sir knight, my choices.”

“No, not just your life. The king was attacked and if you won’t tell me where your patched acquaintance is-,”

The room went completely silent as Roden lunged forward, his blade less than an inch from Ulspierre’s neck.

“-I will have everyone in this room arrested on charges of high treason.”

He was close enough to Ulspierre to see the fear leaping from his eyes. Ulspierre cleared his throat, “Commander! Somebody would like to discuss your methods?”

Roden took a step back as the circle of Faola dispersed, revealing a scarlet haired bull of a man holding a patched Faola by the neck. The Faola weakly slapped at Regar’s grip before going limp.

Commander Regar nodded his head, “I appreciate that King Jaron sent help.”

“Seems you handled the situation on your own,” Roden lowered his sword to keep his arm from tiring, but took care to keep it in view.

He knew he should’ve been relieved that Regar was safe, but a nagging at the back of his mind couldn’t let him accept that this was right. Roden could justify leaving the Faola alone by claiming he couldn’t see them while they redistributed stolen wealth.

But to ignore an attack on the king was too much.

As Roden grew more involved with the Faola, he was realizing that there was an entire rogue kingdom under his nose.

“The attack was much more, ah, personal than you’d expect. My apologies.”

Personal? He didn’t mean to frown as he considered the weight of Regar’s words. The Faola’s attack was based out of revenge; Regar’s tone confirmed that.

And it seemed that Regar knew much more than he showed.

“This bandit is an enemy to the crown,” Roden explained, gesturing to the head locked Faola. “He will be taken and-“

Regar shook his head, “We do things differently in the streets, sir.”

“An act of treason is-“

“I caught the attacker, who swung a sword at me, and it’s my privilege to decide punishment. The rules are different, here. Had you caught the man first, you’d have the responsibility of choosing his fate. But you didn’t, and as one of the victims, I have a say in how this ends.”

Dozens of glittering bandits’ eyes turned to Roden and his men. He knew they wouldn’t hesitate to slit throats if Regar’s demands were challenged.

“The death penalty requires a unanimous vote,” Roden growled. “A vote from a respectable crowd, not a hoard of thieves.”

The Faola began squirming again at the mention of death, only to receive a hard shake from Regar as warning.

Ulspierre wiped away an imaginary tear, “Patchy here is a friend of mine, I’d hate to see his head severed from his body.”

“I had a completely different punishment in mind,” Regar snapped. He pointed a meaty finger at Roden, “You’re an honorable man, can you respect the ancient law?”  
Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, blow for blow.

The knights all looked to Roden; they’d fight to the death if he ordered them to. The Faola all stared, and Regar’s patched prisoner stole a glance.

His eyes carried a graveyard’s color.

Roden stood a little straighter, “I hold rank here. The Faola landed a blow, but the punishment for treason can only be sanctioned by the king.”

“Take the bastard’s mask off,” Ulspierre perched on a barrel. “That would put a fat target on his back.”

Regar threw the patched Faola to the floor, and drew his sword. The other Faola slid into a ring. Each one kept a sharp eye on Roden’s men.

The Faola held his hands over the back of his head, curling up like a child. A pang of almost guilt punched through Roden’s ribs. He remembered being the lost thief at the end of a sword, just hoping somebody had the compassion to bring him to the good path.

He’d watch Regar’s every move.

Treason didn’t merit dying in the Vaults like an animal.

“If you’d be so kind as to step out of the circle, captain,” Regar bowed, and drew a dagger from his belt.

“I’ll be watching, Regar.”

Ulspierre stood on his barrel, chalice in hand again, “Take the mask off, commander! Turn him over to the crown when you’re done!”

The Faola curled even further around himself as Ulspierre’s demands to unmask him grew louder and louder. Roden’s knights kept a firm gaze on as many masked men as they could; Roden never stopped watching Regar.

A fit of laughter erupted from the circle as the Faola made one last attempt to escape. He threw himself at the feet of his fellow bandits, only to be dragged back into the circle.

Roden frowned.

“I am not who they say I am, but I cannot let this grievance pass,” Regar announced, reversing his dagger grip. He took the Faola by the collar of his tunic. “You best be grateful I’m dealing with you, and not the king.”

If it weren’t for Ulspierre’s childish laugh ringing through the room, Roden was certain the judgement would’ve been made in silence. The Faola began jostling Roden’s knights, calling to unmask their fallen friend.

However, Regar had a different plan. His words were lost on the jeering crowd; Roden strained to hear.

His attempts were futile.

A million thoughts crossed Roden’s mind. He instantly regretted allowing Regar to hold that much power over a bandit. A bandit who likely wasn’t much older than some of the pages running around the castle.

It would be too easy for Regar to slit the Faola’s throat.

Something wet splashed Roden’s nose. He didn’t have to feel it to know what it was and who it had been intended for. Those who weren’t wearing their masks had taken to spitting on Regar’s victim.

He didn’t need to see the Faola’s face to know what he felt. The mask saved him from further humiliation.

Regar sliced through both of the Faola’s sleeves, and pushed him to the ground.

It was a simple motion that carried the weight of the sky. Regar hadn’t unmasked the Faola.

He’d separated him from the group.

Those sleeves would forever bear the mark of a disowned bandit. The patched Faola could never return to his family of thieves. Not here in Drylliad.

Exile was always a cruel fate, but it was better than facing charges for treason.

“I’ve taken what’s due,” Regar roared over the crowd. “So help me Saints, I run into you running with bandits again, I’ll-!”

His threat was lost as Ulspierre shouted an order. “Chase him down! Treat a stray the way they’re meant to be treated!”

The Faola struggled to keep his sleeves up as he crawled away from the spitting bandits. Crawling, with the dignity of a drowned mouse. He rolled away from a boot, only to be met with another. A metallic ring cut through the musty air; Regar was shoving several masked bandits. Ulspierre stood atop his barrel, twitching his finger to an imaginary tune.

A knight threw back his hand, knocking over a member of the mob.

Roden glanced back to the fallen Faola, who’d curled up around himself again.

He thought of Brat, Beetle, and Roach. They’d be dead if not for the Faola. It was a favor to somebody who’d once saved his life when faced with the scum of the Vaults. 

“Hold the line!” Roden barked, swinging his sword at anything soft as he stepped over the Faola.

A masked bandit slashed a knife across Roden’s armored shoulder. The teeth-grinding sound of metal sliding across metal was becoming all too common. Ulspierre threw his chalice at one of the knights, and then flung himself into the fight.

The patched Faola had drawn a dagger, and was swiping at the mob from his place on the ground. Roden reached down, picked the Faola up by the neck of his tunic, and shoved him in Regar’s direction.

Jaron wouldn’t be happy reading Roden’s report on this misadventure.

He should’ve taken the Faola into custody and played by the rulebook.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Roden forced his way forwards, calling for his men to follow suit. Their armor would hold up long enough for an escape. All they needed to do was race back up the Vaults’ stairs and into daylight; they’d have better reinforcements then.

Regar tossed the Faola over his back, grabbed an attacking bandit with his other hand, and hurled the bandit into the crowd.

“Up the stairs!” Regar bellowed, now using a captured bandit as a human shield.

Planting his feet at the base of the stairs, Roden stared down the fury before him. He shoved armored soldiers up the stairway and kicked at the masked Faola who were trying to follow.

Battle was chaos, but there was still order. There was still a requirement that needed to be met; somebody needed to win.

There was no order in the Vaults, only Ulspierre giving orders between drunken laughs.

It was too much like the pirates. Too much like Devlin selecting who lived and who died because he was bored. Regar ducked below the stairway entrance, allowing the patched Faola to slide down his back like an eel. 

Blood thrummed in Roden’s ears, roaring over the sounds of fists hitting faces. His gauntlets pinched his skin as he tightened his grip on his sword.

He had the power to end it. To end the madness in this level of the Vaults.

He could slice his way down, taking as many mad bandits down with him as he could.

Roden braced himself to charge forward, reason fleeing from his mind. It was peaceful without that call to logic. Without that drive to continue.

All he knew was that he had the strength to-

A pair of gloved hands slipped below his breastplate, dragging him back. The Faola continued yanking him up the stairs, yelling something down to him. Roden turned on his heels, took the Faola by his skinny upper arm, and dashed out of the Vaults.

The Faola slapped at Roden’s hands as they burst out of the dark stairway. Knights, soldiers, and mercenaries surrounded the stairway entrance with weapons at the ready. The patched Faola froze.

“Commander Regar, Captain Harlowe,” Lord Row waved his hand. Beside him sat King Oberson, who looked like he was going to be sick.

Regar stole a glance at the Faola, who nodded.

Roden knew he was seeing a secret conversation. He moved to put his sword to the Faola’s throat, but at the same time, Regar stumbled forward and latched onto Roden’s shoulder.

“Let me go!” Roden shouted over the clatter of his armor. He wasn’t a fool, he knew- he-

“Apologies, Captain Harlowe!” Regar burst, almost pulling Roden to the ground as he reached for Roden’s hand.

All he saw were fragments of an image. Regar was a mountain of a man, and he’d dragged down several knights with him. The Faola had been hiding behind him. His patched cloak fluttered in the dusk breeze.

The Faola had vanished into the Vaults by the time Roden regained his footing, likely to never be seen again.

“What in the Devils’ name was that!?” Roden roared, red seeping at the corner of his vision. “How did you let him go!?”

Punishment had been served, yes, but letting go of a man who’d committed treason wasn’t an easy mistake to make up for.

Regar coughed, “Don’t yell at me, boy.”

Boy? _Boy_?

He’d heard it over and over. Older soldiers claiming they didn’t have to listen to Roden because sometimes he cut himself while shaving. Claiming they’d seen it all.

He’d lost a bandit who’d overpowered the king with a swift kick to the leg.

Roden had failed at protecting Jaron, and though he’d survive, future attackers wouldn’t be so kind.

Unfortunately for Regar, Roden had enough.

“Alistair!” Roden barked, his voice taking a sharp edge. “You will accompany Commander Regar to the dungeons on allegations of treason, his fate will be decided by the king.”

Row looked shocked, “Captain-!”

“You others, escort Lord Row and King Oberson to safety,” Roden continued over Row’s complaints. “There’s a dangerous man looking for blood.”

A group of knights on horses hit their fists over their hearts, and circled around Oberson and Row. Alistair and his men were almost a little too relaxed as they guided Regar through the crowd.

The rest of the soldiers were under strict orders to search for the Faola with torn sleeves.

However, Roden was no fool. He knew the bandit was long gone.

He was tired.

The goose chase would keep him free to find more pleasurable entanglements for a few hours.

Too much responsibility, not enough results.

**\---------------------------------  
**

The dancing crowd crammed into the Dragon’s Keep was too enticing. People piled in, and the brash sound of pipes and a lute careened through the air. A familiar dark coat pushed into the crowd. 

So, Tobias wasn’t able to keep still either. 

Roden watched him shove his way through the doors. A part of him knew he needed to stand beside Tobias and keep him from getting his teeth knocked out. A part of him knew he needed to return to the castle and explain how he’d lost the Faola.

But he didn’t move.

His armor, though abandoned at the nearest garrison, still weighed down his arms. Still clung to his shoulders. He’d failed at keeping Jaron safe, and now he was willingly letting Tobias walk into a tavern filled to the brim with all sorts of people. 

No, no, Roden couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Tobias try to blend in and end up crying over a limping frog. 

There were too many things to worry about. He stepped forward, forcing himself to continue moving despite wanting to stay still. For Tobias, for Tobias.

Can’t let him get his eye blackened. Can’t-

Cool fingers tucked over the lip of his breastplate, freezing against his burning skin. Roden scowled at the immovable figure before him as best as he could. A splash of blue kept her curls off her neck; he’d cut that scarf himself.

“I didn’t realize my biting wit hurt you to the point of staying away from the Dragon’s Keep,” Merry wrinkled her nose. The left side of her face was covered in red welts.

“Merry, I didn’t-,” he began, freezing in his tracks.

She shook her head, and held up a basket, “It’s alright, I was actually coming to see you. You missed out on tarts the last few days. I, ah, I heard about what happened in the Vaults. Regar’s men are loud drunks.”

His ears burned. He hadn’t realized word of his failure escaped that quickly, “Tobias went in, I need to keep an eye on him.”

“Bad idea, you might be prepared for a battle, but Regar’s men won’t play fair,” Merry tucked her basket in the crook of her arm. “Come on, I had every intention of walking across the city, now you get to come with me.”

Her hand pressed against the small of his back.

“Stop pushing, I’m not your ward,” Roden grunted, and he draped his arm over her shoulders.

“Ah, but I _am_ your friend,” she corrected. 

Friend.

There was an unspoken agreement Roden shared with Merry. It came in the form of sharing tarts and poorly made scarves. It came in the form of stopping by every few days to make sure the other hadn’t gotten their head stuck between stair railing again.

In reality, the head sticking incident had been completely Merry’s fault, but if it happened once, it was all too likely that it would happen again.

“Who hit you?” asked Roden as he slipped the basket off of Merry’s arm and into his hand.

She cracked a smile, “So my face _is_ still there, glad to hear that.”

Roden frowned, ready to ask again. He steered her out of the path of an older woman and her several escorts. “I’ll hold you down till you tell me.”

“Nobody hit me, I promise.”

“I’m not an idiot, Merry.”

“It’s embarrassing!” She threw her hands up. “I slept in this morning and today’s fish day, and the other barmaids got to run their errands, but I had to get the nasty crawfish from the river. They were trying to escape and I didn’t want them to pinch me, which made me run into a door frame. Is that what you want to know? Do you like embarrassing me?”

“Is the doorframe injured? I know how hard your head is.”

She stuck out her tongue, “I’d rather have a fat head than cabbage curls like you.”

Hold on, hold on. Roden tilted his head from side to side, unable to ignore the harsh reality of his shortcomings. He’d let the Faola get away because he’d foolishly trusted Regar, and now Regar was holed up in a dungeon for choosing to exile the Faola rather than slit his throat.

It was wrong to fight the smile swelling in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to feel at ease.

Ease was for those who didn’t have an obligation to put the lives of others in front of their own.

The hand at the base of his spine tightened. “Captain?”

“Yes, Murry?”

“It’s Merry,” her frown was too deep to be genuine.

“Murky?”

“Merry!”

“Mucky!?” Roden rolled his shoulders back. “I could’ve sworn it was Merry, why didn’t you tell me I was saying it wrong?”

“Roden! We’re not children!”

“You started it,” he countered. “Mucky.”

Her fist was too small to do any damage, but Roden appreciated that she’d thought her punch could overpower him. He hid his chuckle with a cough.

This was wrong. She was a friend, not a distraction. He was avoiding the inevitable. Avoiding telling Jaron that the Faola had been too slippery, and had gotten away. His head was throbbing.

Why did she have to look at him? Turn away Merry, nothing to see here!

He was a fool to have left his armor at the garrison. It wasn’t fair, he’d forgotten to bring his mask and helmet today. Roden scowled at the stray cat that dashed across the street. It slipped across the wet stones, and vanished from view.

The Saints cursed him in making him the size of a bear. Bears couldn’t run and hide.

“Did you know you’re much more likely to catch a friar’s lantern in Carthya than in any other place?” The warmth of Merry’s hand at his back vanished; she was beckoning to him, asking him to cross the street and look at the Roving River below.

Roden stared at her extended hand.

It was an invitation, not an order. He caught himself reaching forward and drew back into himself. “I don’t- I don’t know what that is.”

Her hand stayed, still inviting. “It’s a golden light, swinging in the wind. They’re elusive, some say they’re carried by Death himself. He loves his games, as you know, and takes the form of a friar.

“He calls you through a haze, promising your deepest desires. Ones you didn’t know you had yourself. If you can follow him and catch the lantern, you’ve won the game and won the reward. But nobody believes you. The friar’s lantern takes and takes, it’s hard to consider it ever giving.”

Take her hand. She’s a friend, not a hidden Faola hoping to cut off an arm. Roden reached out again.

Lights danced across the bridge’s wet stones, mimicking their partners glinting off of the Roving River’s bubbling surface.

Merry’s little tale hid too much; the friar’s lantern was an unreachable thing to those who couldn’t soldier through twisting games made of mist.

She twirled towards him the second their fingers brushed together. Roden set the basket of pastries down, and set his hand at her back. The moon would be their music.

“What’s your lantern, Lion Boy?”

“Is it wrong if I don’t know?” Roden felt his brows knit together. “I don’t know if I have a lantern. What’s yours?”

A wicked smile cut across her impish face, “I’d be drawn and quartered before anyone knew my lantern.”

“It’s that serious?”

“You wouldn’t quite understand.”

“Try me.”

Merry only shook her head, there’d be no answer tonight. Did he even want to know what her lantern was?

He watched her struggle to maintain eye contact. Merry’s hand in his was too tense, too afraid of being caged. She stepped forward as he stepped back. Step to the side, step forward. Side, back, side, forward. Squeeze in a cowardly turn.

“I don’t want to be held back,” Merry blurted. “I’m not anybody’s toy. I’m not a pawn.”

“You’re not a toy.”

Had the moment been wild and open, Roden would’ve called for Mott to watch. He’d seen Mott turn Jaron’s words around too many times, and now Roden was doing the same.

Silence hung on the summer air a little too long. Roden cracked a smug grin, “You’re my friend, Merry. I’d rather push you forward than hold you back.”

It was Merry’s fault that their timid dance ended. She threw her arms around Roden’s neck, nearly knocking him off balance. They were friends. There was nothing wrong with embracing her back.

“You’re a good person. Too good,” she wiped her nose. “But your ankles are too small and now I’m uncomfortable. Good people can’t have small ankles.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, and rocked from side to side. Avoiding the bear in the room was a skill Roden had perfected. He knew when other people used it too. Unfortunately, Merry wasn’t as subtle as she hoped.

“And I take it you have tree trunk ankles?” Roden leaned against the bridge wall, a little more aware of the night breeze than before.

“Do you want to see?”

Comparing ankles wasn’t exactly what Roden expected out of his night. He reached forward, and pinched Merry’s round cheek, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to say no.”

“Is it because your ankles are too small?” Merry swatted at his hand.

“That’s too much of a secret to tell.”

“Ah, I figured out my lantern.”

“Don’t tell me it’s to see-“

“It’s to see your ankles.”

“By the Saints,” Roden snatched Merry’s elbows and pulled her closer to him. “You need to see a priest.”

Merry clasped her hands together and looked to the sky, “Holy ancestors, forgive my lust for Captain Roden Harlowe’s needle thin ankles.”

It was too hard not to crack a smile. Roden shook his head; he knew fully well that his ankles were at _least_ twice the size of Merry’s. She held onto his forearms, and Roden wondered if she was seriously considering forcing both of them over the bridge’s edge.

His fool’s paradise shattered when Merry’s thumb brushed over the pirate brand on his arm. Though the fabric of his shirt hid it from view, it was impossible to miss when touched. Merry’s eyes went wide.

Was this the way he looked when he’d touched the scar on her shoulder?

Roden straightened, unsure of what to say. Fire burned across his face. The pirate brand served as a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen. It was a testament to the lengths he was willing to go when he cared enough.

“I think I was wrong about you,” Merry trailed her finger over the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you _would_ understand the stories I have to tell.”

It was then that he realized just how old Merry’s eyes were when she wasn’t sparkling with laughter. A weary traveler, constantly fleeing an enemy.

Or perhaps constantly tracking a friar’s lantern.

“The scar on your shoulder,” Roden murmured.

She shrugged, “I didn’t lie when I said I earned that one from rock hopping.”

“You said there were others.”

He’d never seen such a bitter smile. Merry waved her hand, “It’s not important.”

Kind words weren’t something Roden knew well for a very long time. He’d known curses and cruelty for too long, but he’d been taught tenderness. Taught by Harlowe and Nila.

Roden tugged on one of Merry’s stray curls, “It’s important to me.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t speak to you?” He tilted his head. “I like you. Are you going to shove me off a bridge, Mucky?”

Merry pinched his chin, “No, I’ll do something much worse than that.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“But you should be.”

Roden lunged forward, catching Merry by the waist to toss her over his shoulder. She squealed in protest.

Carrying her on his shoulder was better than searching those travel-worn smiles and false laughing eyes for answers that would never be given freely. He didn’t want her to know that she held too much power over him.

He’d managed to let go of his failure with the Faola for just a moment.

A moment filled with ghostly lanterns and a moon dance.

**  
  
  
**


	16. Blackberry Night I

His room was too sparsely decorated to be distracting. Jaron tugged on Imogen’s long braid, earning a light hearted smack.

He’d called for a meeting with his inner circle half an hour before, but hadn’t expected anyone to arrive early, not while the morning sun was still shoving its way across the horizon.

However, Tobias was standing before him. Quaking before him.

“I’m in a much better mood,” Jaron tugged on Imogen’s braid again, and managed to catch her hand. “Ha! Caught you!”

Imogen made a face, “Would you like a blue ribbon for that, love?”

“I would, actually. Give it to me now.”

Tobias coughed, “I, ah, I decided to let you rest before I told you what I found out.”

Saints, what had he asked during his feverish ramblings this time?

The events from the previous evening bled into a continuous stream. Checking on Feall, the blow to his leg, and then falling asleep in the physician’s chambers. Jaron tapped his knee. He and Imogen were discussing Mireldis Thay that morning. They’d figured out a link to her: Jolly.

“Is it- is she dead? Did Jolly have the information we wanted?” Jaron trailed his thumb over each of Imogen’s knuckles.

He could hear his own words echoing back at him, the unintelligible claims of fever and exhaustion. Jaron brushed a strand of hair away from Imogen's face, repeating the motion despite having tucked all of her stray hairs back into place. He'd had a suspicion about who Mireldis Thay was.

No, no.

He had _several_ suspicions, ranging from Ayvar all the way down to Dawn of the Dragon's Keep.

Although the latter was seeming more and more unlikely with each passing day.

Tobias looked to Imogen, "I told Amarinda a few minutes ago, I didn't want either of you to be alarmed."

"Are _you_ Mireldis Thay?" Jaron pressed a hand to his heart.

It was thumping too hard in his chest. Trying to escape.

Trying to find a safe place to rest. To let stone walls down and grow branches. Tree branches, specifically. Ones strong enough to climb and hide in.

Patience was a virtue Jaron never cared to master. His rabbit heart only proved that.

"Saints curse it all, stop hesitating and just tell me what you were able to find out," Jaron burst.

Imogen flinched.

"I, ah, well," Tobias scratched the back of his head, apparently finding his toes much more interesting than Jaron's frown. "I should warn you that Jolly's not afraid, or at least that's what he told me."

"This isn't about Jolly, it's about Mireldis Thay."

"But it _is_ about Jolly, Jaron. And Feall. Everyone here has become a pawn and none of us caught it."

The rabbit thumping in Jaron's ribs wasn't easing. He tried to calm himself by pressing Imogen's fingers to his chin.

Pieces of a game.

Pawns.

Jaron had been a pawn before, and he had no intention of going back.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He muttered.

"You were unconscious, Jaron, you wouldn't have been able to understand," Imogen's quiet reminder almost made his frustration melt.

"I haven't spoken with Feall," Tobias finally looked up. "He's still resting and it's cruel to try to force words from an injured man. We were fools to put pressure on Amarinda and not him. Ami's lived in Carthya for more than a decade, Feall hasn't."

There was a simple reason behind respecting Feall's privacy, and Jaron hated it. He hated that he'd been too trusting.

And yet, Feall had given them so many reasons to trust him.

"You still haven't told me what you found, Tobias."

Silence chills, even in the middle of summer. Jaron's room was far too cold, far too quiet.

"Jolly never gave Lady Thay's name outright," Tobias rolled his shoulders back, as if bracing himself for some sudden death at sharing his secret. "Instead, he informed me that Mireldis Thay has indeed been in Carthya this entire time, talking with us and earning our trust. She's been here the entire time, ever since Feall and King Oberson came to pay homage to you. And there's only one person I can think of that's been here, becoming friends with us."

The words were too frightening to say.

“Renlyn Karise,” Jaron frowned. “You mean to tell me Renlyn Karise is Mireldis Thay?”

Tobias nodded.

However, Imogen shook her head in disagreement. “That’s impossible, you know how much she and Feall get along with each other. Feall’s told us multiple times that the Faola attacking him had to be Mireldis Thay.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” said Jaron.

“How did Amarinda take it?” Imogen asked.

“Ah, she- she didn’t accept the news. She _still_ hasn’t accepted the news. We agreed to think on the matter and discuss it once we’ve both sat with the information.”

Amarinda didn’t take the news well?

Could she be blamed?

Renlyn Karise had a murderous stare and an ambiguous streak, but Jaron couldn’t picture her being bold enough to kick him and crawl back to the castle.

Though maybe he was wrong. He’d gambled on another person’s behavior before.

Playing the long game was something Jaron knew well. It took skill and foresight, both traits were something Renlyn needed to maintain a series of business ventures.

She’d tricked him into buying things, and now he’d trick her into revealing herself.

“I’ll handle it,” Jaron sat straight up, jostling Imogen in the process.

“Jaron, we’re here to help y-“ she began.

“Please tell me you didn’t invite her to the meeting,” said Tobias, pressing his hands to his forehead. “By the Saints, you invited her to the meeting.”

Yes, actually, Jaron _did_ invite Renlyn.

But for a different reason than Tobias and Imogen expected.

Roden was among the first people to visit Jaron that morning, bringing news of the Faola’s escape with him. News of Regar helping with the escape. Jaron hid his disappointment with a cheeky grin and quick forgiveness.

In the end, Regar’s imprisonment would only help Jaron. He’d read a series of letters since Row and Regar came to Drylliad.

One could only see the same name so many times before noticing patterns.

If Jaron’s guess was correct, he’d give himself a medal.

“She holds valuable opinions once you get past her general unapproachability,” Jaron grinned.

“I don’t think we should be taking this so lightly,” said Tobias. He looked like a preening crow each time he patted down his deep green vest. “Your bruise runs too deep for jokes.”

“See, there’s a detail you forgot. Did you catch it, Imogen?”

The slight shake from Imogen’s head gave Jaron his answer.

He’d mulled over the prospect of catching Mireldis Thay for several days before cracking down and searching through books. When that didn’t help, Jaron turned to Kerwyn, who’d been present during King Eckbert’s search for a suitable bride. The search led Eckbert to Amarinda, in turn leading to a rush of Bymarian information.

Kerwyn knew little more than Jaron, but that was better than nothing. Kerwyn knew the names of all seventeen Bymarian noble lords, their five kingdom states, and their five lesser kings. Graer Thay was a staunch military leader, who’d left the keys to his kingdom state to his second wife.

Graer Thay vanished just before the Avenian war.

Queen Danika’s investigators should’ve been looking for two Thays, not one.

Tobias was rubbing his wrists, and glanced over his shoulder. Once he’d finished with his wrists, he tugged at his shirt’s collar. His odd ritual continued as he patted the hem of his vest.

“Jolly never gave you the actual name, Tobias, you made an assumption,” Jaron explained. “A very compelling assumption, yes, but believability doesn’t make something true.”

Tobias scowled, “You’re the one who asked me to be a spy! Let me stitch a person back together while you manage to topple entire regimes because you’re slippery enough.”

“We haven’t toppled a king recently,” Imogen tapped her chin. “We should add that to our future plans.”

“You’re right! We’ve focused too long on our own problems, it’s high time that we cause 

problems for somebody else,” said Jaron. “Let’s practice on Tobias.”

“Jaron! I’m your friend, your doctor, your regent, and a member of your inner circle! That’s not a good idea!”

People often forgot how easy it was for Jaron to remember details.

Details like Roden rubbing his neck and Mott grabbing his side when a door shut loud enough.

Tobias’s little detail was much quieter than reaching for an invisible pain. He patted his clothes, his hair, his wrists.

Almost like he was checking to make sure that he was still alive.

The antidote for these bursts of eerie movement varied from person to person. With Imogen, Jaron reached for her hands. With Mott, it was holding a conversation.

With Tobias, it was merciless teasing to the point of a frustrated outburst.

“Let’s replace every single one of his left socks with socks that are two sizes too big,” Jaron gestured to Tobias’s boots. “Not too damaging, but enough to cause discomfort.”

“Don’t be cruel, he did do you a favor last night,” Imogen said.

Tobias opened his mouth to speak, but Jaron cut him off. “That’s why the socks will only be two sizes bigger instead of being made from woven metal.”

“Metal cloth is saved for gowns, not socks,” Tobias crossed his arms.

“They’ll make an exception for me.”

The door creaked open. Roden held a hand to his eyes, “Stop yelling, I haven’t eaten breakfast.”

“Didn’t I just see you?” Jaron frowned.

“I had an errand to run.”

“That’s what Fink’s for.”

“It wasn’t a Fink type of errand.”

Mott and Amarinda entered next, going their separate ways when Amarinda stood beside Tobias. 

Amarinda’s frown, though small, couldn’t be missed.

Roden and Mott began dragging chairs to Jaron’s bedside as more people came. Imogen would sit on Jaron’s left, while Harlowe sat on his right.

Jaron took great care to instruct everyone to leave the seat nearest to the corner open for Renlyn.

It provided both privacy and openness.

The corner would feel like a hiding place despite having no cover.

Renlyn slipped into the room just before Harlowe with Fink serving as her escort. When Fink received his nod of approval from Mott, he crossed his legs and sat at the end of Jaron’s bed.

A good move; chairs weren’t always ideal. 

There was never any rest for the weary. Despite the ache in his leg and Tobias’s insistence that he rested, Jaron had his trusted circle gathered around his bed. He’d made his decision regarding several situations. 

Jaron held out a hand to Imogen. Her touch was almost enough to take the pain away. 

“Let’s get this all out of the way,” he stretched his arms above his head. “I have every intention of yelling at Renlyn for putting up decorations while I was trying to recover.”

Renlyn only smirked.

Much had happened during the night, or at least that’s what Imogen told him as she helped him hobble back to his bed. Regar was in prison, the Faola who attacked Jaron escaped, and Lord Row was still waiting to know if Carthya would help Avenia.

“Shall we start with the happier business or get right to depressing ourselves?” Jaron leaned back against his pillows, eying the people around his bed.

Imogen, Amarinda, Mott, Tobias, Roden, Renlyn, Harlowe, Fink, and Kerwyn.

His greatest supporters.

Harlowe patted the papers in front of him, “I suppose the happier business, it’ll soften the difficulties to come.”

“I’ve done this in an unorthodox way,” Jaron said. “We can’t hesitate to help Avenia, not if we want to promote good relations. Lord Row requests a Carthyan presence in Isel, and it is what he’ll get. Harlowe, we will station soldiers in Libeth, and place Sir Alistair Derforgall in Isel.”

“Alistair’s a good choice,” Roden nodded.

“I know, it’s why he’s going to Isel. He has enough experience to be useful and enough smarts not to do something stupid.”

Amarinda’s back was as straight as a rod, “Lord Row will be pleased.”

He’d better be happy. Jaron didn’t want to throw out military assistance to every lord who threw himself at the king’s throne.

Renlyn raised her hand, and spoke when Jaron nodded to her. “I have several holdings in Isel that require protecting, I’ll likely hire an army should revolution break out, they’ll be there to assist Alistair.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” said Jaron.

“I’ll try to meet your expectations then.”

Was that really the face of a cold blooded killer?

Probably. 

Jaron ran his thumb over Imogen’s fingers as Harlowe scribbled down Jaron’s decision on a piece of parchment.

“Speaking of foreign powers, what are we to do with King Oberson?” Kerwyn stroked his massive beard.

He looked like a philosopher of old. 

“We can’t turn him away, it’s rude and I have no intention of making any new enemies,” Jaron gestured to his leg. “I already have one too sneaky to be caught.”

“It’s time you started taking soldiers with you when you leave the castle,” Mott said.

“For the first time, I think you might be right.”

Tobias’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, “Is it raining ducks outside? Are pigs flying? I never thought I’d see the day that Jaron agrees with Mott regarding his own safety.”

“And onto the next subject,” Jaron pointed a finger at Tobias; he’d get him back for that comment later. “Commander Regar is currently waiting on us to hear about his fate. Roden, would you mind explaining the situation from last night to us?”

Roden’s expression hardened. “Last night after the attack on Jaron, I tracked Regar to the Vaults. He’d already captured the Faola responsible for the attack, and chose to behave according to the old laws rather than turn the Faola over to the crown’s custody.”

“Odd,” Mott scowled. “And alarming.”

“Regar managed to help us get the Faola out of the Vaults,” Roden continued. “However, he claims to have slipped and he caught my shoulder for balance, allowing the Faola to escape. I doubt the Faola stuck around.”

“I think the Faola _did_ stick around,” countered Tobias. “I think he’s still in the castle.”

“But why?” Fink scratched his nose. “You’d be an idiot to stick around a place where everyone wants you dead.”

Jaron cracked a sly grin, a faint memory of teasing Fink back at the pirates’ camp snatching his attention. 

“The Faola likely has another goal they value more than their own life,” Renlyn clasped her hands in her lap. “Foolish from our perspective, yes, but to the Faola it must be important.”

“We’ll discuss the matter of the Faola later,” Jaron said. “Regar’s situation requires our attention for a moment.”

“Will you give him the punishment for treason?” Kerwyn leaned back in his chair.

“That’s not something to be taken lightly, and I won’t have somebody executed for treason based off of a stumble.”

“His stumble could cost you your life, my king.”

Jaron waved his hand, “Did you know you can rearrange the letters of certain words to form other words?”

“Jaron, please.”

“I’ve chosen to pardon Regar as a demonstration of kindness and also because I think he holds some use to us,” he said. Jaron squeezed Imogen’s hand, “Besides, it would be disrespectful to kill Lord Row’s hired commander after telling him we’ll give Avenia the aid she needs. You don’t make friends by giving them a prize and then breaking their foot.”

“We’re playing this game for friends now?” Renlyn arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes we are. Does that bother you, Lady Karise?”

“Not every friendship holds the best intentions, my king.”

Tobias plucked at his collar, his eyes glancing from Renlyn to Jaron without a hint of subtlety.

The trap had been set. Jaron kept his gaze locked on Renlyn. She didn’t seem like she’d run away, but he’d been wrong about her before.

“A bold claim, coming from a girl wearing a false name,” Jaron kept his voice even, kept his face almost icy. “The pattern was hard to follow, but it made sense. Lord Feall came here first, followed by Jolly, followed by you.”

Renlyn’s movement was slow. Too slow.

She had the speed of a predator tensing before a pounce.

“Just what are you suggesting, my lord?” Renlyn asked. Her eyebrows had risen and her mouth curled down. She was daring him.

Daring him to say the name.

“I’m suggesting that you’re Mireldis Thay,” Jaron forced a smile. “You sent Jolly here to gather intel on Lord Feall, you joined the Faola, and used that as a cover to kill him while still maintaining a comfortable life.”

The silence that followed rivaled the chilling, never ending void of a coffin.

Everyone looked to Renlyn, but she never looked away from Jaron.

“That poses a curious question,” Renlyn mused. “I’m not _not_ Mireldis Thay, just as Princess Amarinda is not _not_ Mireldis Thay. Are we all who we really say we are, your Majesty?”

“Answer the question,” Roden growled. He’d pushed his chair away from the bed, obviously preparing to apprehend Renlyn.

Mott had mimicked the motion.

“Ask it again, if you didn’t like what I said. Be more direct.”

Renlyn was pushing her limits on purpose, Jaron recognized the way she danced around the question. He inhaled, watching for any betrayal of emotion on her face.

All she did was stare at him. 

“Are you Mireldis Thay, Lady Karise?” He asked. “Have you been lying to my face the entire time you’ve served my wife?”

“If you require me to be Mireldis Thay, then I am she.”

The answer wasn’t what Jaron wanted. It wasn’t what anyone wanted. Renlyn’s motives were clear at one point; serve the kingdom by being a companion to the queen. But now it wasn’t so easy.

Everyone flinched as Renlyn stood. She flashed a rare, glittering smile. “There is no need to escort me to the dungeons, I’m still a member of the nobility and I’m complying with your accusations. Captain Harlowe, Sir Fink, you can accompany me to my chambers.”

“Excuse me?” Jaron leaned forward. “Do you think this is funny, Lady Karise?”

“I do, actually, but I’m not here to cause a ruckus. Do enjoy Blackberry Night at my expense, King Jaron. May the festivities distract and guide you to the answer you seek.”

**\--------------------------------**

Jaron almost felt guilty about locking Renlyn in her chambers when he saw the finished decorations for Blackberry Night.

Candles hung in perfect little cages, their light bouncing off of gilded plants. A faint sparkling dust tumbled from the ceiling. Every noble was dressed in shades of cream, gold, and pink.

Even Jaron conformed to the strict color code. 

He’d given up fighting Mott about needing an escort, his argument fading to nothing after his inability to stand for more than ten minutes without needing a rest. Jaron agreed to let Mott keep an eye on him until Imogen came. 

One of the best additions to the hall was a series of ivy covered trellises forming tiny square rooms. Jaron and Mott had managed to squeeze into one before a forbidden couple could take it. The ivy walls didn’t mask conversations, but it did manage to give Jaron a moment of privacy.

A moment to build walls to block prying eyes.

“That couch looks all too appealing,” Jaron noted, crushing his hand into a fist.

His leg didn’t control him.

“Sit down then,” Mott said. “You don’t want to collapse in front of everyone.”

Very true, unfortunately. 

The great hall was packed with glittering doublets and wide gowns. Trying to get to the tables stacked with sweets would require military assistance.

Jaron stared at the couch. “Do you think I went too easy on Renlyn?”

Mott crossed his arms over his plain white shirt, obviously thinking of an answer. He shrugged.

“Maybe I was too hard.”

“I think it’s dangerous to assume things, Jaron. But that applies to all people, not just Renlyn.”

“Too many things make sense if she really were Mireldis Thay, but there’s still a few inconsistencies. It’s not quite perfected.”

“So tell me what you know, and we’ll figure it out together.”

“This is the longest you’ve been nice to me, Mott,” Jaron cracked a grin. “Is it because somebody kicked me?”

“Take a seat on the couch.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Jaron collapsed against the cushions, his leg sighing in relief. 

The music playing, some Mendenwal styled waltz, still managed to be heard despite the hundreds of conversations all at once. Jaron tapped the beat of the waltz out on his leg.

Regar, Regar, Regar.

When rearranged, it posed a striking resemblance to another infamous name.

Jaron couldn’t keep his discovery to himself. If he was wrong, so be it, but the pattern was too clever to keep hidden.

“Did you know you can rearrange the letters of certain words to form other words?” Jaron asked, repeating the same phrase he’d used when meeting with his inner circle.

“Yes, you mentioned that,” Mott said. “What words have you created this time?”

“None, actually. I’m just thinking about false names. I lived with a stolen name for a good portion of my life, and I know how important it is to find a name that reminds you of who you are without letting other people know.”

“Are you still thinking about Mireldis Thay?”

Jaron nodded, “I think we’ve been focusing on the wrong Thay.”

Had it not been for the sudden hush falling over the crowd, Jaron would’ve thrown out his newest theory. But not with the quiet. Not where people could hear him and pass on the information.

It could wait.

The continued quiet was too loud to be ignored. Jaron forced himself off of the trellis, using Mott as a support to peek out of the trellis walled room.

Mott was there to push Jaron’s chin back up when his mouth fell open.

Amarinda and Imogen were walking down the stairs with their arms linked. Though Amarinda looked pleasant enough in her gold gown, Jaron had eyes only for Imogen.

“Get out of the way! That’s my wife!” Jaron hissed as he wormed through the crowd of nobles.

Imogen rivaled the spring sun. She was warm, inviting, and covered in only the calmest blooms. Pale pink fabric climbed her arms before vanishing into a pair of round sleeves and reemerging in the front panel of her gown. Tiny pearls had been strung into her hair.

He had every intention of freeing every single one.

“Sorry I’m late,” Imogen flashed an apologetic smile. “Plans changed.”

“I’m going to kiss you right now,” Jaron said.

“Oh, at least let me find _my_ husband first,” groaned Amarinda. 

“I think he’s nursing a head injury.”

Imogen laughed, “I haven’t seen him go that shade of red in too long.”

The musicians began to play again. Jaron did his best to fulfill his promise to kiss his wife, but Imogen’s dodging abilities were improving with time.

“No, I put paint on my lips and I refuse to be the girl with lip paint all over her chin,” Imogen put her hand over Jaron’s mouth.

His words were muffled. “You’re the queen, it’s different.”

“Lip paint is messy!”

“The messier the better!”

He’d get his kiss. Jaron knew he would.

Taking Imogen by the hand, Jaron led her to the center of the floor, not at all ashamed of holding her hand like a trophy. 

“Are you sure you can dance?” Imogen asked.

“I’ll force myself through at least half of one, but I have other plans for this evening,” he said, nodding his head towards the trellis walled spaces.

Imogen snickered, and set her hand on Jaron’s shoulder as their dance began.

Every one of her features was as familiar as the back of his hand, but he never gave up the chance to study her face. The curve of her nose, the fullness of her bottom lip. Her springtime smile.

There could never be anyone else for him.

Only Imogen.

It was her hand that he reached for in the night to remind himself that he was safe. To remind himself that he’d found somebody who’d never abandon him in the name of peace. He reached for her when the pirate brand on his arm ached and when the past he shoved away couldn’t be shoved any longer.

The throbbing ache in his leg was slowly returning. 

Her hand, still calloused from her years as a servant, was a perfect fit in his. If he held on just a little tighter, he could finish the dance. 

King or not, Jaron refused to keep Imogen from being treated the way she deserved.

And meant ignoring the pain in his leg for the duration of a song.

“Do you want to-,” Imogen started.

Jaron shook his head, “I only want to be here with you. Tell me what you did today. During the afternoon. I didn’t get to see you.”

“I played with the kitten,” her smile brightened the room. “Amarinda tells me that if I keep giving treats for no reason, the kitten will get too fat to walk. She’d have to roll around.”

“I’d have a carriage made, one that can be pulled by a team of tiny rats. That way, Fink gets his rat, and your cat can get around.”

“But wouldn’t the cat eat the rats?”

“Nonsense, if the cat’s too fat to walk, it can’t catch anything.”

Imogen continued tracing her steps through her afternoon, explaining that the gown she wore wasn’t what she’d originally planned, but she’d felt a surge of spontaneity. The seed pearls in her hair were also a last minute add in.

Nobody could ever match Imogen. 

Not her strength nor her undeniable ability to make everyone she met feel wanted.

It was still a struggle to accept that she’d chosen _him_ out of every other man in Carthya.

He was silent when the song ended and Imogen helped him limp to the ivy guarded rooms. Words were hard to come by when both pain and burning devotion met to fight for control. 

“Sit by me,” Jaron patted the couch cushion beside him, his smile was small, but he preferred it to a forced grimace of a grin. “I promise I won’t get lip paint on your chin.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to return to bed?” Imogen asked.

“I want to be with you.”

“And I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“It’s not so bad when you’re with me.”

Too much hid behind Jaron’s words. The pain in his leg would go away, and it would come back the next time he was kicked there. It came and went. 

As did the pain of the past.

But Imogen made it bearable.

**  
  
  
  
  
  
**


	17. Blackberry Night II

Tobias didn’t always enjoy grand parties. They were too loud, too crowded. He picked at the color of his pale gold coat. Good thing he and Jaron decided to enter the great hall at different times, otherwise he’d be hearing comments about how poor he looked in the color he’d chosen.

Jaron’s leg caused too much pain to bear with talking to pompous nobles, Tobias and Harlowe both agreed to do the talking. 

The more nobles Tobias spoke to, the more he realized how much he didn’t fit in.

It was easy to ignore the divide between Tobias and the other nobles when he wasn’t around them. He avoided speaking to them unless he absolutely had to. Typically it worked. 

Some time ago, Roden explained how he was able to avoid unwanted conversation. He frowned slightly, lowered his brow, and always kept his posture straight. Nobody wanted to talk to somebody who had business to attend to.

However, Roden was far more intimidating than Tobias. It took several tries before Tobias was able to successfully avoid being cornered and questioned by a noble.

Too many people were at the Blackberry Night festivities, avoiding conversation was impossible.

When would he see Amarinda?

She was much more gracious at declining an invitation to tea from the eel eyed lord of Eberstein. When Tobias declined invitations, he felt rude, and was probably perceived as rude. He tried to avoid stepping on as many toes as he possibly could.

He was running out of excuses.

“I am _so_ sorry Master Powys, my wife and I already have existing plans.”

“Ah! I can’t attend, I agreed to give medical attention to the poor in lower Drylliad!”

“Amarinda and I are going to be assisting the queen with washing her new cat, it’s been scheduled for months.”

“Unfortunately, Bymar holds a festival for their patron saint of cheese that day, and we can’t miss honoring him and risk ruining all of Bymar’s cheese product.”

There was no sign of Jaron or anybody else Tobias could talk to. He tugged at the sleeves of his coat. Glittering dust floated from the ceiling and was caught on the creases in Tobias’s coat. The dust clung to his lashes.

It was more of an annoyance than a pretty thing.

Tobias rubbed the glitter out of his eyes, and threw himself into the crowd of dancing guests. He’d find Roden near the sweets table, he was sure of it.

Though his confidence took a blow when he reached the table and found no sign of his friends.

Now lonely despite the sea of people, Tobias made his way back into the center of the room, hoping that by some fluke he could locate Jaron. 

Both sides of the great hall were lined with trellises covered in plants; they formed tiny rooms complete with swinging trellis doors. One of them shifted ever so slightly. Jaron had to be hiding in there. He had to be.

Tobias wasn’t sure who he’d turn to if he was wrong again.

He’d almost managed to ignore the sudden wave of silence. Everything halted, from the dancers to the musicians. Nobody said a single word.

His wife was responsible for the sudden reverence in the great hall.

Amarinda walked down the stairs with her arm linked with Imogen’s. Her tardiness was easily excused; she captured the attention of everyone in the room.

One of the trellis walls wiggled, and Jaron’s head poked out from behind it.

The musicians began to play again, this time their piece started with a shy intro, playing with the softness a doe carried as she walked through the woods.

His face burned. You’d be a fool not to agree that Amarinda’s brilliance rivaled the legends of Carthya’s magical residents.

Her chestnut hair tumbled down her back, a gold net covering the top and sides of her head, framing her face in the process. The gown she wore boasted a high collar and wide, sweeping sleeves that threatened to brush the ground. White rosebuds clung to the hem, trailing up to bunch together at the edge of her gold bodice.

Jaron had forced his way over to Imogen; Tobias didn’t remember seeing him move.

Was it allowed?

Was he allowed to speak to such an ethereal-

Of course he was! Amarinda was his wife!

Tobias pulled up the collar of his coat, smoothed back his hair, and marched through the bowing crowd. He’d married her, it was allowed. He’d married her, it was allowed.

“Somebody will write a sonnet about the way you look tonight,” Tobias blurted once he’d finally reached Amarinda. “After I have, of course.”

“I do love poetry,” Amarinda’s moonbeam smile was all too intoxicating. “Especially if you wrote it.”

“You look- you look absolutely stunning. Not that you don’t already always look stunning, it’s just- ah, I don’t know. Not quite sure of what I can say. If I wrote stories of magic and enchantresses, you’d always be my heroine.”

“And you’d always be my hero, Tobias,” Amarinda countered. She reached for his hand. “Dance with me?”

He took her by the waist, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The music grew louder; other couples joined the dance. Jaron and Imogen, Kerwyn and Mistress Orlaine. Several other young nobles twirled along with the rest. Tobias bit his tongue, praying his cheeks would return to a normal shade.

“I heard you used Saints Brigge and Naoise as an excuse to not go hunting with Master Previn,” Amarinda said.

Ah, Saints. Tobias’s face only burned fiercer. “I couldn’t think of anyone else, and I know how important Bymarian cheese is to you, we can’t risk their anger.”

“You’re absolutely right we can’t. Cheese carries far more value than we give credit.”

“I hope you’re not angry about not going hunting, you weren’t with me, and I wasn’t sure what to do.”

Amarinda laughed, and clung to Tobias’s shoulder as he dipped her. “Hunting is fun with the right company, but Master Previn has outdated views. He probably wanted us to accompany him so he could tell me about why I need to stop promoting trousers for women.”

“Maybe we _should_ go hunting so you can wear trousers to anger him.”

“As funny as that would be, I’d rather face anger because of a declined invitation than turn Master Previn away from the crown. There are better battles to fight.”

“Battles like forcing Jaron to sit down and rest?” Tobias nodded towards Imogen, who was limping Jaron to one of the trellis walled spaces.

She nodded, “Exactly like that.”

Tobias raised their clasped hands, and guided her in a circle around himself. He remembered the first time he’d danced with her; truly, genuinely danced. It wasn’t as grand as Blackberry Night, and it never would be. They’d danced around the fire while smuggling Amarinda to Bymar during the Avenian war. Fink served as their musician by drumming on a log.

She’d taught him the steps to a Bymarian barn dance.

He practiced them in the privacy of his chambers after the war ended, only to be caught by Roden, which led Tobias to teaching Roden the same steps and a silent pact between the two of them to never speak of the experience again.

Roden occasionally served as Tobias’s partner when he couldn’t get the steps right. Tobias led, but he didn’t feel like he could ever truly lead a dance when his partner’s size rivaled that of a war torn bear.

Every practice session paid off when Tobias had the chance to lead Amarinda across the floor into the sounds of Bymarian pipes and drums.

Although the same couldn’t be said for Roden, who’d practiced the woman’s part too long and couldn’t quite get the man’s steps. 

He’d never forget the way Amarinda glided across the great hall’s stone floor after their wedding.

“I’ve been considering asking Jaron for a few days’ leave,” Tobias blurted as the music changed to a light reel. He tucked his left arm behind his back, and held his right as straight as he could while still holding onto Amarinda’s hand. “Just to escape to the countryside. Libeth, maybe.”

“Are you still thinking about the attack the Faola led against you?” Amarinda frowned.

“No, not really. A little, actually, but not often enough to put pressure on my work.”

It wasn’t quite a lie. Tobias had been in enough mishaps to understand when he was safe and when he wasn’t. The day after he’d been attacked had been-

Unpleasant.

He woke up the morning certain that somebody was watching him, only to find that Fink was waiting at the foot of his bed to deliver a message. Every creaking door reminded him of the way the Faola’s saber slipped from the scabbard. 

But he’d been safe in the castle the entire time.

Eventually, he recognized that. Recognized that he was no longer in danger.

And then he was able to continue on with his schedule as he always did.

“Where would we go?” Amarinda asked, pausing with the music.

Tobias shrugged, “Anywhere. To the south, to Mendenwal. I’d even go to Eberstein, even if there’s not much to do there.”

All he needed was Amarinda and he’d be fine.

Although a book would be nice too.

There was nothing more pleasant than the summer sun lazily pushing its way through trees while Amarinda was curled up in the crook of his elbow, reading the old tales of knights and vengeful spirits.

“Mendenwal is always very nice this time of year,” Amarinda mused, reaching to cross arms with Tobias as the dance continued. “There’s a village I’ve heard of that plants fields and fields of tulips. I’ve always wanted to go see them.”

“Then we’ll go,” said Tobias.

“And leave Jaron to his own devices?”

“He has Mott, Roden, _and_ Imogen.”

“I don’t- I don’t know if I’d be able to look at flowers and eat chocolates knowing those three don’t have your voice of reason. Especially not after this most recent attack,” Amarinda took several steps back, a frown tugging at her lips. “I don’t think I can dance any longer, Tobias, there’s a lot of things on my mind.”

Tobias held out his elbow for her to take, “Then tell me what they are.”

They’d spent many a late night discussing Feall. Discussing Mireldis Thay. Saints, they’d even discussed Jolly, but that conversation quickly turned into a debate about a mandolin’s superiority to a lute.

He hadn’t had the chance to ask her how she felt about Renlyn’s confinement.

Amarinda soon took the lead, bypassing the trellis rooms and heading straight for the gardens outside. 

Distant music from the taverns fought for control against the uniform notes coming from the castle. The garden remained largely untouched, they were magnificent on their own with their immaculate shrubs and bursting vines.

And it was much less crowded than the great hall.

“I’ve been considering asking Feall about his relation to Mireldis Thay. He’s claimed so often that she wants to kill him, but perhaps he wants to kill her/ first,” Amarinda said. “Renlyn and Feall have been nothing but civil to each other. He accompanies her to lower Drylliad and when she wants to walk at night. Why wouldn’t she kill him during one of those outings?”

“To preserve her name so she can return to normal life once her goal has been reached,” Tobias shrugged.

“That’s what I thought. But why? Why does she want him dead so badly? And Renlyn never outright confessed to being Mireldis Thay, she was dancing around the question, almost like she was telling us what we wanted to hear rather than what we all needed.”

“We’ll speak with Feall when he can string together a coherent sentence, I promise,” said Tobias. 

“I’d feel much more comfortable leaving knowing we’ve done all that we can to help.”

How could he argue against that?

Tobias just didn’t want to admit that he was afraid that maybe there wouldn’t be a clear end to the Thay’s mess.

People disappeared all the time, they stole names, became new people. Tobias was ready to move on. He didn’t want to waste time searching for ghosts.

Especially after Renlyn’s humiliatingly calm reaction to being accused of treason.

He’d been so sure that Jolly’s hints were true. But perhaps Jolly’s claim to love Mireldis Thay more than he feared any king carried more weight than Tobias expected. Fear changed a person. It made them say things they’d never dare to think of just to feel safe again.

Jolly’s inability to tell Tobias where Mireldis was hiding technically fell under treason. He was aiding an assaulter of the king.

Would he really risk his neck for a woman he’d never been seen with?

Jolly of Angelmarr, a troubadour.

Tobias looked at Amarinda. A slight frown tugged at her lips, and her nose was crinkling as it always did when she was deep in thought. Intelligence burst from her dark eyes. She was forming a plan. A quiet plan; one that would bring her the best outcome at the lowest cost.

He knew he loved her more than he feared any king.

“We’ll fix what we can and then we’ll go to the tulip fields in Mendenwal,” Tobias slipped his arm around Amarinda’s waist, pulling her nearer to him. “And we’ll eat chocolate and say we’re going to be calm and not get involved in some whirlwind adventure and do the exact opposite.”

“Can we bring Jaron and Imogen? And Mott? And Roden?” Amarinda asked.

“If that’s what you want. We can turn it into a grand party, I’d do whatever you asked.”

“Even grew out a moustache?”

The thought of a line of hair covering his top lip made Tobias snort. “I’ll draw the line at a mustache.”

“Good,” Amarinda smiled. She reached up, and trailed her pointer finger along Tobias’s chin. “Mustaches are incredibly unflattering, and I’d make you shave it immediately anyways.”

He’d think about mustaches over dark deeds done by dark ghosts of the past any day.

The distraction was a welcome one.


	18. Blackberry Night III

Blackberry Night had a grip on every building and on every person. However, Renlyn and Amarinda’s strict color rule only applied to the castle. 

Roden wondered if he’d get an earful for skipping the grand party for something calmer.

Hopefully.

The instructions were clear. They were to meet outside the city gates beside the Roving River. He was to bring every weapon known to man, a full suit of armor, and barrels of pitch. 

Unfortunately for Merry and her extreme hatred for crawfish, Roden hadn’t been able to mobilize forces.

But he did bring Nila, who didn’t really mind crawfish. She didn’t really mind anything, much to the horror of her tutors. 

Merry was standing at the river bank, mud covering her bare feet. She waved. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Roden tilted his head in Nila’s direction. “Sadly, waging war against water bugs wasn’t able to find space in my schedule.”

“Lady Harlowe, it has been _far_ too long,” Merry said, nearly scraping the ground with her head as she bowed.

“The pleasure-,” Nila mimicked the bow. “-is all mine.”

“Your trousers are impeccably tasteful, if I do say so myself.”

“They’re quite nice to tell the truth.”

Merry put her hands on her hips, “Did you do the braids in your hair?”

Nila shook her head, and pointed at Roden. He coughed. “I did them.”

As captain of the royal guard, Roden was responsible for ensuring that Princess Amarinda and Imogen were watched over during their travels. He rode outside their carriages and kept vigil outside their tents. During their travels, he was with them for almost every single moment.

Of course they’d taught him how to braid hair.

“That’s- bravo, Captain Harlowe, you’ve earned a little bit more respect from me,” Merry whistled. 

“They’re just braids,” said Roden.

“Very _nice_ braids, mind you.”

“Do you like the ribbons on the ends?” Nila asked, holding up the ends of her two golden braids. A pair of blue ribbons were tied to the edges in immaculate bows.

Merry looked to the side and pointed to her own blue hair ribbon, “We match.”

Nila looked at Roden, her smile reaching her eyes. “We match!”

“Ah, yes, that you do,” he said. 

He’d have to start giving away different colors of ribbon.

“I hope you don’t mind helping me catch crawfish,” Merry scratched the back of her hand. “I slept in again and I didn’t get to pick my chore.”

“I’m good at catching crawfish, they get really big in Libeth so I’m not scared of the little ones in the Roving River,” Nila said. “The village boys like to have team contests with catching the buggers, everyone wants me on their team.”

“The crawfish here are small?!” Merry tapped her right shoulder and then her left.

Roden recognized the sign. Bymarian and outdated. Meant to expel evil spirits from entering the soul. Amarinda explained it to him several years ago.

“Sometimes they’re red,” he added. 

“With glittery black eyes!” Nila held her fingers to her face, imitating a pair of spectacles. 

“By the Saints! Do the Devils wander Libeth too?” Merry stepped back, disgusted.

Taking Nila by the hand, Roden stepped off of the main road, approaching the silty riverbank. “Haven’t seen one yet, but there’s a first for everything.”

A large bucket waited for them, supporting a series of sticks of varying length. There was a cloth inside the bucket, and upon further inspection, a sausage too. Nila sat down in the reeds and peeled off her boots. 

“I brought string,” Merry fished around in her patched apron pocket. “Do you have anything to cut it with?”

“Are you using a stick and bait like you’re fishing?” Nila scoffed. 

“Are you going to catch them with your bare hands?”

Nila tied both of her braids in a knot at the base of her neck, and slowly waded into the Roving River without a word. Roden tensed. She knew how to swim, but he still struggled with keeping a safe distance. 

It was hard to stay away knowing the various dangers that could occur at a whim.

“Right, well, ah, I don’t like holding crawfish, so I’m using a stick and string,” Merry mumbled. 

Roden motioned for the string, “Why don’t you like crayfish?”

“They’re scary and their pincers hurt. Don’t get me wrong, I like to eat them, but I don’t like looking at them.”

Completely fair. 

He cut through a length of string, handed it to Merry, and cut a length of string for himself. Nila’s fearlessness was completely different from Roden’s. The more he thought about crawfish and their spindly little legs, the less he wanted to hold one. 

“Jolly said you frequent the chapel,” Merry dug around in her skirt pocket.

“Yes, ah, I do,” said Roden. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering just what Merry hoped to 

accomplish by pointing that out.

She frowned, still patting at her skirts. “I swear if I lost it-”

“Lost what?”  
  


“I made you something. But I won’t tell you what it is, and it’s not a tart this time. I didn’t know Nila was coming, otherwise I would’ve brought something for her too.”

“She’d understand.”

Merry stuck her tongue out as she searched another skirt pocket. She gasped in delight, “Found it! Here, if you don’t like it, don’t tell me.”

A string of beads, bits of polished glass, stones, and another fish coin dangled from her grip. She held it from the middle to point to another charm at the top of the string: A silver shield bearing an ‘x’.

“Are these-?” Roden asked, holding the string up to the setting sunlight.

“Prayer beads? They’re a little unconventional, but I know that’s important to you and I’ve gathered too many stones, they needed a purpose,” Merry shrugged. “I bought the charm, and the coin at the end matches the other one I gave you.”

The unorthodox beads, mostly green in color, matched the springtime season growing between his ribs. Encompassing his bones. Roden held the string in his fist, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how he could describe what they meant to him.

“Thank you,” Roden grinned. “It really-”

Merry brushed her chin, “Ah, don’t mention it. It’s just trash I’ve collected over the past few weeks.”

Except that it wasn’t trash.

He wouldn’t put pressure on her. Roden knew exactly what pressure did to a person, and it rarely worked out in the end.

What turned a heart to stone?

Turned a smile to ice?

Pressure. 

“I caught one!” Nila shrieked, yanking her prize out of the water. The crawfish in her hand pinched at the sky, trying to reach backwards to attack Nila’s hand.

“Absolutely revolting,” Merry gagged as she dumped the sausage out of the bucket. She held her skirt in her hand as she stepped into the mud, holding the bucket beneath Nila’s crawfish. 

“You really did catch that with your bare hands.”

“She’s really our best offense when it comes to a crawfish battle,” Roden said.

The bucket found a permanent place wedged in the mud not far from where Nila stood. Her knotted braids came loose, resulting in both blue bows dragging in the river water each time she dove for a crawfish. By the time Roden had both poles ready for himself and Merry, Nila had caught three more crawfish.

“By the Saints, can I give her my wages if she always comes to help,” Merry put her hands on her hips. She yelped, and leapt away from the water. “Something touched my foot!”

“It’s probably just a plant,” Roden said. 

Merry nodded, and once again stepped into the water; Roden slid out of his boots and socks as fast as he could, splashing in after Merry. The silt between his toes conjured up unpleasant images from years ago.

But he’d ignore them for now.

His battle was with crawfish, not with boys his own age at the wrong side of a war.

“I can’t, I just keep thinking about-,” Merry swallowed. “-about one crawling over my foot.”

“A reasonable fear, your ankles are too small to put up much of a fight,” countered Roden.

“My ankles are most certainly _not_ too small.”

Roden gestured for Merry’s hand, “Step where I stepped, there’s a rock you can stand on.”

“You found the rock first, you can stand on it.”

“I have hardy ankles, you don’t.”

“I caught another one!” Nila bellowed. “How many have you caught with your pole, Merry?”

“Fifty, but sadly, they are all invisible.”

Ultimately, Merry did step on the rock. Roden took several steps to the left, and tossed the sausage into the water. The silt sliding beneath his feet reminded him too much of a familiar substance he’d tried to avoid for as long as he could.

Distraction. He needed a distraction.

“Are you doing anything once you’ve captured every crawfish in the Roving River?” He asked, pulling the string a little closer to him.

Merry laughed, “Not exactly. It’s my first time in Drylliad for Blackberry Night, and I’m one of the only girls who’ll have to pass around tankards of ale to all the young lovers at the Dragon’s Keep.”

“Somebody will try to steal you away.”

“You’re right. Jolly has grand plans and apparently I’m the only one who can help with them. Something about getting all of the Gelynian’s in Regar’s army to demonstrate their signal songs.”

“My voice teacher’s Gelynian!” Nila called. 

“Then perhaps you can join us at the Dragon’s Keep and show off your skills,” Roden said.

“Really?”

“No.”

“Roden! I’ve been to the Dragon’s Keep before!”

Merry clicked her tongue, “You got yourself into this one, Captain.”

“Friends help friends?” Roden tried, once again tugging his string to a new patch in the river.

“Nila, love, the Dragon’s Keep is going to be horrifically crowded,” Merry explained. “Besides, somebody needs to make sure Roden gets into bed on time.”

“Exactly! Ah, Merry, your string’s gone tight.”

“My string’s gone- My string’s gone tight!” Merry burst, jerking the string up. The crawfish and sausage piece shot out of the water, and landed in the grass. An odd slapping sound confirmed that the crawfish hadn’t escaped to the water yet.

Roden caught a small crawfish not long after he picked up Merry’s for her. As expected, Nila brought in several. Her trousers were completely soaked, and river water dripped from her once pristine braids.

She looked like a mess, but the giddy laugh that came with every caught crawfish excused the dirt stains.

Merry and Nila began a spying game, each one taking a turn quietly spotting an object and letting the other try to guess what it was.The game was familiar, and Roden joined in after a few rounds, but gave up after Nila chose a tree for her object three turns in a row.

The silt. That slippery, dirty grip it had on his ankles and calves. It was nowhere near those old memories. If anything, the silt was cleaner.

But it felt too much like blood soaked grass.

The makeshift rod in his hand felt too much like a sword. He-

“Roden, can you help me?” 

A crawfish was swinging in a circle, picking off pieces of sausage. Merry held the string at an arm’s length. The crawfish waved a claw in the air. Roden nodded, and pulled the crawfish free from the sausage.

Mosquitos buzzed, signalling that it was time to either go home, or face the wrath of hundreds of cursed bugs. Nila had already pulled her boots on. She held the bucket with price, and pointed out each crawfish she’d caught. 

The roar from the Dragon’s Keep echoed all the way through the streets and almost past the walls. Merry gave Nila a tight embrace.

“Really, it means the world to me that you caught that many,” she laughed. “I’ll never doubt your claims ever again.”

“Good, because you shouldn’t,” Nila clasped her hands behind her back. “I’ll think of you when I see a crawfish.”

“Saints, I hope you don’t. Now hurry along, I’m not responsible if you turn into a fish from wearing those soaking clothes for too long.”

Nila stuck out her tongue, and bounded ahead of Roden. He lingered for a moment. “I, ah, I’d rather not be trapped in a room filled with nobles.”

“I don’t blame you, though Carthyan gentry is much more favorable than any other court I’ve been t- I’ve heard of,” Merry crossed her arms. “Are you sure wild noise and Jolly’s eternal lute playing is something-?”

She didn’t need to say it. Roden knew what she was hinting at; Merry wanted to know if he needed a quiet place.

And the answer was no, he didn’t. Quiet places left him alone with his thoughts, and Roden didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight, anyways.

“I can get past the lute,” Roden promised. “Can I come see you?”

“If you don’t mind watching me clean, then yes. If you stick around till I’m finished, we’ll steal an entire cake and eat it ourselves. Or feed it to a very lucky pigeon. And you’ll get to see Gelynians belting their hearts out. That’s a sight to see.”

Roden caught himself nodding. The roar of noise at the Dragon’s Keep was different from the porcelain chatter that would undeniably be at the great hall. Nobody cared at the Dragon’s Keep, but everyone at court was waiting to rip somebody to shreds in a moment of weakness.

He could ignore what happened at the river if he was given the right tools.

Take the matter up with his father once the situation calmed.

“I’m glad I got to help you conquer crawfish,” Roden said, the prayer beads were almost heavy in his pocket.

Merry smiled, and patted his cheek, “Thank you for putting them away because I hate them.”

There was no need for goodbyes, Roden knew he’d be back. 

“Oh! And Roden?” She added. “Bring ink and a quill, I’ll bring flowers. We’ll toss something over the bridge.”

Tossing flowers and wishes into the Roving River, turning a blazing flow of death to a place of good memories.

He couldn’t stay away if he tried.


	19. Gamble

It was almost sad, seeing the great hall devoid of the grandeur of Blackberry Night. Sadder still knowing that Renlyn Karise hadn’t been able to see the fruits of her labor. Jaron had no intention of shedding any tears. Today, Feall was declared recovered.

There were questions demanding answers, and Jaron was determined to get as many of them as he could.

He’d taken a morning climb down the castle wall to test his leg, and managed to avoid slipping. Mott wasn’t impressed and immediately escorted him back inside.

At least Jaron managed to get the climb in, if Mott had known sooner, Jaron was certain he would’ve been locked in his own office. He would’ve been forced to tend to the stack of papers on his desk he’d been avoiding since the Faola attacked him.

The Faola would’ve been a fool to stick around Drylliad. According to Roden, the Faola’s sleeves were split on both sides, marking him as a thief with no loyalties. 

Making him an easy target for everyone bigger than him.

Even if the sleeves were stitched, the slits would still be recognizable.

Jaron asked Roden multiple times if he’d seen the Faola darting around town, almost trying to find a reason to free Renlyn. The Faola was responsible for the attack, carried the name Mireldis Thay, and lusted for revenge with enough fury to commit treason. Renlyn, though passionate, carried a quiet fury. If the Faola made an appearance on the streets, Jaron would either have to let Renlyn go, or recognize that there were more people determined to slaughter Feall.

Everytime it seemed like the situation was clearing, Jaron found a flaw.

Tapping his fingers together, Jaron slipped past the columned corridor leading down to the great hall. 

Think, think, think.

Imogen would’ve told him to make a list, but he had no paper. He’d have to remember his list until he returned to his office. 

Feall didn’t recognize the Faola during that very first attack by a personal name, but by other aliases, and even then the Faola had been used as a name for the entire group rather than the individual. The attack only resulted in stolen goods, but no deaths. It took a note to Oberson requesting Feall be handed over to the Faola to bring the circle to Mireldis Thay. There was a second attack on Feall, and that was when Jaron took responsibility for finding the culprit. Jaron and Imogen realized that Jolly likely knew more than he let on, the third attack happened, and Renlyn was confined to her apartments.

It would be a busy day.

He needed to know if Roden had seen the Faola snatching loaves of bread to throw to the woman with no eyes in lower Drylliad.

He’d then know what to do with Ayvar.

And then he’d confront Feall.

Every word Feall said was honest, but that was the catch.

Each word he said didn’t equal everything that actually happened.

Jaron snatched a steaming iced bun from a passing plate, and shoved it into his mouth. The bun burned his tongue, but he continued chewing anyways. The sweetness justified the bun’s abuse.

Saints, he should’ve grabbed one for Roden.

There was a second captain’s quarters hidden near the back of Jaron’s throne. Roden rarely used it, and Jaron didn’t blame him. It was dusty and sneaky, meant to hide a bodyguard while the king sat upon the throne. However, Jaron still knocked on the door, just in case Roden was hiding inside.

No sign of any type of movement, not even from the few mice that managed to escape Imogen’s cat’s deadly claws.

He wiped his icing stained fingers on the leg of his trousers, and marched off to the kitchens.

No sign of Roden there either. Odd, considering that the kitchens were among Roden’s favorite places. He was the kitchen staff’s favorite and always managed to get his hands on a meal when he visited.

It was a cozy place. Drying herbs hung from the ceiling and a dome shaped oven crackled in the corner. Jaron glanced around, making sure nobody was looking at him, and snagged a vanilla bean from where it hung. A part of him wanted to know if it tasted as good as it smelled.

Previous experiences with biting into other drying herbs reminded him that it wasn’t worth it to bite into the bean.

He pocketed the dried vanilla, and spun on his heels to exit. The kitchen door slammed shut. Jaron glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “I beat you to all of the iced buns, didn’t save a single one.”

“I got lemon tarts this morning, so I’m not too disappointed,” Roden snipped. He tugged at the sleeves of his dark shirt. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at my office, I woke up early and-“

“You don’t need to excuse yourself, I’m not mad. Although I _will_ be mad if I don’t get the answer I want.”

“I’ll do my best to answer.”

His palms grew sweaty. It was wrong to hope for a specific answer, but Jaron couldn’t stop himself from wishing. He wanted to be right. He wanted to know that Renlyn wasn’t responsible for the various attacks. The more he wondered, the more his hopes grew.

“Have you seen our Faola friend around?” Jaron asked. He stepped out of the kitchens, knowing Roden would follow. “Any sign?”

Was it wrong how much his heart sped up?

Was it wrong that he wanted so badly to be wrong for the first time in ages?

Renlyn had been a friend to him and the others in her own way. Her biting words kept them dancing on their toes, and searching for ways to match her prowess.

It was hard to believe that somebody could smile and get excited about a hand carved wardrobe while plotting to behead another friend in her quiet moments.

“I’m sorry, Jaron,” Roden shook his head. “I haven’t seen any movement from the Faola, especially not after that night. I’ve seen the others, if that helps. They’re rallying behind a new face.”

“Masked or unmasked?” said Jaron, forcing himself to laugh. 

He had no excuse to release Renlyn from her new prison.

“Unmasked, calls himself Ulspierre. He’s Ayvar’s brother. Very unsettling.”

Though now he had good reason to release a scarlet haired thief.

Jaron clasped his hands behind his back and paused. He’d walked a little too quickly, leaving Roden behind. “Thank you, I suppose, for telling me. It wasn’t what I wanted but I can’t control the truth.”

“What does it mean for Renlyn?” Roden asked. 

“She’ll remain in her chambers until we can get a genuine confirmation of her identity, and I’ll decide her fate from there.”

“There’s something not quite right about Renlyn, and I’m not sure why.”

Jaron pushed the door open to Ayvar’s tower room, bracing himself for the hundreds of spiraling steps before him. “Jolly was completely clear and completely misleading all at once.”

“Exactly,” Roden nodded. “I’ve been around Jolly for ages these past few weeks, and he’s really quite blunt when he wants to be. He’s never brought up Mireldis Thay around me.”

“Did you ever ask?”

“Well, no, I try to keep work and my friends separate.”

“But I’m your friend and I work with you,” Jaron paused on the stairs, heaving in a breath. “By the Saints, why did we have to put Ayvar in the tower?”

“Because she’s a woman and it’s not respectful to her to leave her in the dungeon with watery eyed criminals.”

“Have you been reading Amarinda’s romance novels again?”

“That was a one time thing, and the answer’s no.”

Ayvar’s tower room was hardly better than her cell in the dungeons. She had a cot, blanket, and clean water. Additionally, she was completely alone, save for the guard posted outside of her room.

“Good morning, I hope you didn’t try to use your hair as an escape rope,” Jaron said. “Hello? Ayvar?”

“Captain Harlowe?” The guard gripped his halberd like it was the only thing holding him together.

“I can answer questions too.”

“Your Majesty?”

The room was completely empty, and the sight of Ayvar’s folded blanket made Jaron’s rabbit heart begin to race. Did she die in the night?

Silenced to keep whatever song she sang under wraps?

“Where’s Ayvar?” Roden demanded. “There was a prisoner here, soldier, and you were under strict orders to never let her out of your sight!”  
“Sir, I, uh,” the guard bowed to Roden, realized his mistake, and then bowed to Jaron. “The prisoner was requested for an audience, King Oberson himself came to escort her to a private location.”

“Do you know where he’d be?” Jaron asked.

“No, sir, I’m sorry. Sir. But I know where the prisoner was taken; you’ll find her in Lord Feall’s chambers, supervised by two other guards. We made a promise not to let her out of the castle without your approval, sir.”

Roden groaned, “You were told not to let her out of the cell, actually.”

“It’s not like he could’ve said no to a king,” said Jaron. He suddenly had another reason to add to another list. “We needed to talk to Feall anyway.”

“But the stairs, Jaron, the stairs.”

“You need to work off those lemon tarts anyways, I knock two things out of my schedule and you don’t get soft in the middle. It’s a win-win situation!”

Although Jaron secretly dreaded the long descent down. 

If he forced a joke or two, he wouldn’t have to explain his frustrations. Explain how much he hated the idea of locking Renlyn in the dungeon because she didn’t have an alibi for the night he’d been attacked. 

Silence meant he could think.

He could paw through his list.

Feall didn’t know the Faola’s individual identity during the first attack. Jolly arrived in Drylliad for the festival. Oberson grew afraid because rumors spiraled about Mireldis Thay. A letter demanding Feall reached Oberson, confirming that Mireldis Thay was searching for Feall, or at least someone wearing her name was. The second attack on Feall. Regar’s arrival. Row’s pleas. The third attack. Renlyn’s arrest.

Regar’s arrival.

Jaron hobbled down the stairs as fast as he could, his leg beginning to scream. “I can’t go this fast!”

Roden thundered past, taking the steps by pairs rather than one at a time. “Sure you can, Jaron! Just admit that I’m faster than you!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Chicken!”

Feall’s chamber was on the opposite end of the castle, tucked several floors beneath Jaron’s office. Somebody was having a conversation behind Feall’s closed door.

“I went up and down the tower stairs looking for you Ayvar, so Feall, I’m sorry for not knocking,” Jaron said, pushing his way into the chamber. “Though ask my permission the next time you want to move a prisoner of the crown.”

The chamber was plain, a standard guest room. White painted walls, canopy bed, simple desk, fireplace. Although this room couldn’t be plain with Ayvar’s brilliant hair falling over her shoulders. She wore manacles, and was flanked by two guards. 

“Good morning, your Majesty,” Ayvar bowed. The chains on her wrists clinked together. “I’m sorry finding me was such a chore, but it seems that I don’t have that much control over what I get to do these days.”

“A price you have to pay for breaking the law,” Jaron countered. “It’s almost better that you’re here with Feall, I have important matters to discuss with you both.”

Feall was standing, the bandages around his torso visible through his linen shirt. His curling hair was tied in a bun at the apex of his head. He didn’t look like a liar. 

“I sent a page to request your presence,” Feall bowed. “But you were nowhere to be found and I needed to speak with Ayvar.”

“You should’ve waited for my permission.”

“The matter was urgent.”

“Explain the matter, then,” Roden growled. “You answer to Carthya’s king while you’re on Carthyan lands.”

The crisp morning became stale in an instant. Feall took a step back, while Roden casually set his hand on his sword. The hammering in Jaron’s ears was too loud. His heart raced and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Too many things could go wrong, too many things. Feall could attack him. He could kick at his bad leg and escape. Jaron had no idea what would happen if he received another blow to the leg. What he would-

He’d be alright. Roden was in the room with him. 

And besides, Jaron trusted Feall.

They were at least acquaintances. Possibly even friends.

“I wanted to apologize,” Feall winced as he stood a little straighter. “Ayvar tried to save me all those weeks ago, she’s been imprisoned for an unjust cause, and I felt like it rested on my shoulders.”

Jaron crossed his arms, “Ayvar, is this true?”

“I don’t see why I’d need to lie,” she said. “Lord Feall is telling the truth.”

“Your patched friend tried to kill him again.”

“And apparently he kicked you, your Majesty. Please understand, the Faola was built based on a legend, and unfortunately our cause was used for an ulterior motive. We never wanted to harm the king.”

“I find it so interesting that you’ll still beg your cause,” Jaron tilted his head. “Stealing is still a crime no matter what you do with what was stolen.”

He’d never admit that deep in his heart, he would’ve taken the same path. Stealing from the nobles sitting before their flickering fires to give to the match girl freezing in the streets. But as the king, he couldn’t say something like that.

So he kept it to himself. 

Ayvar entwined her fingers together. “Is there anything you want to ask of me?”

“Not exactly,” Jaron said. “My answers have been found, no matter how disappointing. Will you return to banditry when you’re eventually freed?”

“Do you already have plans to arrest me?”

“I don’t but Captain Harlowe might. He’ll get awfully bored now that things are beginning to die down.”

“Then you’ll have to forgive me for not answering.”

“Take her back to a holding cell, she’ll know her fate by this afternoon,” said Jaron.

The guards beside Ayvar nodded. She bowed her head once again, muttering her gratitude as she was escorted out of the room.

With her out of the way, it would be much easier for Jaron to be himself. He couldn’t allow himself to look like a fool in front of one of his subjects. There was no telling what would come out of his confrontation with Feall; he could appear very foolish if things didn’t go the way Jaron wanted them to.

“Sit down, Feall, we have a lot to talk about and I don’t want to strain you with your wound,” Jaron gestured to the simple chair beside Feall’s desk.

“If you think I need to take a seat, then you should too,” Feall said. “You were injured too, your Majesty.”

Jaron frowned, “I can stand if I like.”

Feall grimaced as he sat down, and he looked to Jaron. “I will do my best to say what you want me to say.”

“But I don’t want to hear what you want to tell me, I need to know the full truth.”

“Yes, yes you do. Where would you like me to start? Can I ask you a question first?”

“I suppose you can, unless you’re asking me to leave, in which I won’t.”

“Your Majesty, is it true that you located Mireldis Thay?” Feall’s face was devoid of any emotion. “Is she here in the castle?”

“The gossip made its way here too. I currently have our suspected Mireldis Thay kept in a safe cell. However, it seems that you have more history with her than I thought. There’s something more than a good old fashioned ‘I want to kill you for your title’ happening with her, isn’t there?”

To Jaron’s surprise, Feall nodded. “You never asked, so I never spoke of it.”

“Why not?”

“There are things I don’t feel comfortable thinking of, let alone discussing it.”

“Then I hope you can forgive me,” Jaron frowned. “Your comfort put my wife in harm’s way, and it’s not something I’ll ever forget.”

Imogen. The most valued person in his life.

He’d slaved away in order to survive, but surviving isn’t living.

Imogen inspired him to live.

He didn’t want to think of a world where he didn’t have her hand to hold onto. A world where he didn’t hear her lectures each time he climbed out of their bedroom window instead of taking the stairs.

That world was cold and desolate, but a fantasy.

Imogen had almost suffered the consequences of a battle she’d never even heard of.

“Is the queen hurt?” Asked Feall, almost managing to leap to his feet. He didn’t make it very far before he pressed his hand against the bandage around his torso.

Jaron scowled. His face was made of stone lines. “Imogen is fine. But you have to be completely honest with me Feall.”

Every story had a beginning, middle, and an end. They were long and they were short. Jaron smirked; he’d canceled almost every one of his meetings later that afternoon. He would hear every detail Feall gave if it meant Jaron stayed there the whole night.

However, he wasn’t sure if Roden had the same drive.

“How do you know Mireldis Thay?” Jaron crossed his arms. “You’re here as a guest in my home, not a prisoner. You’re my friend, you have no reason to lie to me.”

Feall looked down at his hands, his shoulders going soft. 

It was unsettling, watching a knight of Feall’s stature shy away from telling a story.

He finally heaved in a breath, and began his tale. “As you know, there are five lesser kings in Bymar who answer to King Norman. King Graer Thay led Idunn Craich, and took me under his wing after my father fell in a skirmish with Gelynians. I became his ward; an example to his children. Mireldis and I knew each other long before-”

“You knew Mireldis Thay as a child and you never told us!” Roden snapped. “Do you-?”

“Hush, this isn’t even the good part of the story,” said Jaron.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Feall cleared his throat. “I became the, ah, man of the household when Graer returned to the mainland to train with King Norman’s household. I was- I was sixteen at the time.”

There had been many times when Jaron had gone to the crypt where his family was buried. He hid there among stone coffins, almost praying a spectre would appear just so he could say goodbye.

He hadn’t begged for an unholy apparition in years.

The look on Feall’s face faltered. His stern squint widened.

Almost like he’d seen a spectre. Almost like he was seeing the ghost of a person he never said farewell to.

“Take your time,” Jaron murmured.

“Queen Ingrid Thay took care of most matters, I handled the rest. Mireldis grew jealous, claiming I’d taken both her mother and her father from her,” said Feall. He rubbed his forehead. “She sulked, so I ignored her. I grew capable of managing funds and trade under Ingrid’s- under Ingrid’s guidance. I gained favor, Mireldis did not. 

“Two years later, Graer hadn’t returned, and the Avenian war broke out. Queen Danika called for every man who could fight, I was of age, and I answered her call. It was the last time I saw Mireldis as a princess. I was fighting in Gelyn when Ingrid wrote to me, explaining that Graer had been conspiring with Avenian generals to betray King Norman, and that the sixteen other noble houses extracted punishment. Graer and all those who followed him deserted the next day.

“I returned to Bymar, but not immediately to Idunn Craich. King Norman and Queen Danika invited me to spend a season with them, and I did. I returned to Idunn Craich to help Ingrid, and once I saw fit, I returned to the mainland. There was a series of bandit attacks near the Gelynian border that following summer, attacking both Gelynians and Bymarians. 

“My orders were to find out if the attacks were correlated, and then to stop the perpetrator if they were. It took months of tracking to eventually recognize a pattern; the attacks occurred near mountain passes, and the survivors often told wild stories about trolls attacking them with scythes.”

Jaron didn’t hide his snort, “Were they trolls with scythes?”

“Luckily, no. They were Gelynian miners and sheep herders who were trying to gather fortune,” Feall explained. “Eventually, we were able to map out the attacks and find the epicenter, which led us to a tiny cottage in between both Gelyn and Bymar. I saw a girl inside. She would’ve been Mireldis’s age, but when we returned to arrest the bandits, they were nowhere in sight. The girl left with them. We found her body settled in with the victims from another attack. I assumed she was Mireldis. She’d always had hair that lingered past her knees, and the corpse I saw had the same.

“I continued serving the king in protecting the Bymarian-Gelynian border, until I was called north. A new bandit appeared, stealing from caravans but never with more than ten others. Called himself the Black Knight, though now it seems that _he_ is in fact a _she_. The Black Knight vanished, eventually turning to terrorize south Bymar by leaving Various men and women tied to trees. It was much harder to track her there, as the pattern often extended into Gelyn. Earned herself the name of Shrike. She vanished before I could take her in, which turned out to be because she was anticipating my arrival in Drylliad protecting King Oberson.”

The memories were coming back. Jaron remembered the exchange between Feall and the Faola. Between Feall and Mireldis Thay. He’d heard Feall throw out both of those names; nobody knew that Mireldis Thay was wearing a mask.

“And you figured out that the Black Knight, Shrike, and the Faola were Mireldis Thay when she sent that letter to Feall, demanding that he hand you over to her,” Roden frowned.

Jaron could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. He was working his brain too hard.

“Exactly,” Feall rubbed at his forehead again. “It really came together when I almost died. Twice.”

“Congratulations, escaping death multiple times is a requirement for being a person I speak to for more than a few weeks,” said Jaron.

Feall’s story was wide, it dragged in several other people. Honest people, like Queen Danika and King Norman. Jaron knew they gave truth and expected truth from those they brought into their court. 

He’d have to think about Feall’s words.

It frustrated him knowing that Feall knew Mireldis as a child, and yet, this factor was never discussed. 

Was this how Imogen’s cat felt when it saw a mouse run across a kitchen floor after they’d hunted tirelessly for it?

Jaron tapped his toes, stacking the information. Think, think, think. There was a detail staring him in the face, but he wasn’t sure just what it was. Something big and important. Arguably important, that is. If it was so vital, Jaron wouldn’t have forgotten it.

“Did you have a good relationship with Mireldis?” Jaron asked, fighting the urge to pace.

“I- well, yes. We were playmates at one point, but things have obviously changed since then,” said Feall. He twirled the strings of his shirt around his fingers. “Your Majesty, would it be, ah, nevermind. Sorry, sir.”

“Spit it out, Feall. No point in not asking for something, you don’t know what I’ll say.”

“Would allowing me to visit Mireldis be out of the question? I want to see her, I want to- I want-”

“To apologize?”

“To ask her why she hates me so.”

Everyone always wanted answers. They always wanted to know why people did things that they did, especially if those things involved people getting hurt.

It wasn’t enough to just accept that maybe some people chose differently.

Jaron knew Feall was hoping to find an answer. He wanted to know that there was a sliver of goodness in Mireldis Thay. He wanted to know that something caused her years of banditry and assault. It could excuse her actions. Jaron recognized the naiveté in Feall’s plea, he wanted to fix Mireldis.

But not everybody had an underlying just reason for what they did. Bevin Conner claimed to be a patriot and then murdered Jaron’s family. Devlin, the former pirate king, led a life of piracy in the name of ambition.

It was all too likely that Mireldis Thay hated Feall and tried to kill him because she could.

“What makes you think Mireldis would want to see you?” Jaron asked, crossing his arms.

Feall cracked a bitter smile, “I don’t think she ever would _want_ to see me, but I want to see her. I’ll forego any danger in the name of justice.”

“Then allow Roden and I to accompany you, in case Mireldis decides on a whim to snap your neck.”

“If she can snap my neck, I think we should be concerned about what she’d do to you.”

“I can hold my own, Feall,” said Jaron. “What happened when I was with you was just a lucky blow.”

Or was it?

The Faola had kicked at his leg rather than running him through with a sword. Jaron was lucky to have walked away with his life.

The kick to his leg was a demonstration of power. Mireldis Thay could’ve killed him, but she didn’t.

Just like her proximity to Imogen could’ve given her a window to kill the most important woman in Carthya, but she never used the opportunity.

Extending a hand, Jaron nodded. They’d go to see Mireldis Thay. Feall could confirm her identity, confirm that Renlyn Karise was just a false name. She’d finally display a show of emotion rather than keeping her same deadpan expression, and Jaron would gloat for a moment before deciding her fate.

He had no intention of following through with the treason charge. Renlyn would be valuable in the future.

It was a stupid move to execute a future ally.

“Jaron, something’s been on my mind,” Roden said. He’d fallen behind by a few steps. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the attacks on Feall.”

“Ah, thinking can be quite dangerous for you,” Jaron countered. “Every time you think of something, I think of something, and suddenly everything’s on fire.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Are you planning on setting the forest on fire?”

“No! I’m thinking about-,” Roden burst. His face colored as his voice echoed around the corridor. “I was there, after Feall’s second attack. I drove them away and took Feall back to-“

Jaron motioned for the guards outside Renlyn’s door to come closer. “Do you want Feall to thank you?” He asked, and then turned his attention to the two guards. “Has she done anything foolish? Is she still in there? Any cursing or vase-throwing?”

One of the guards shook his head, “No, sir. The lady within hasn’t made a sound, she’s received her first meal already. Didn’t say a word.”

“We thought she was dead for a few minutes,” confessed the second guard. “It’s not natural, being able to sit so quietly for that long.”

“Ah, that’ll change,” Jaron said. “We’ve come to visit her. Brought her an old friend.”

“Jaron, please, it’s really important,” Roden tried, he held his hand up to keep the guards from butting in.

“Ignore that hand, we’re talking. Have-“

“Feall wasn’t the only victim on the night of the second attack! He-!”

“I know, Roden, I heard the entire ordeal and then read the-!”

“Mott, Tobias, and-!”

“Stop interrupting me!”

“Not until you listen!”

Picking fights with Roden was too easy, but Jaron hated it when Roden did the fight picking. Those fights were usually heated and ended with fists flying, and Jaron had no intention of getting a fist to the face and-

“Oh Saints,” Jaron pressed both of his hands into his hair. “Oh no, no, no no. Feall, don’t open that-!”

Unfortunately for Jaron’s dignity, Feall opened the door to Renlyn Karise’s room.

The important detail he’d forgotten came rushing back, triggered by Roden’s attempts to point it out. It ruined everything.

Renlyn Karise had been the fourth victim during the Faola’s second attack on Feall. She’d handled the situation all too well, bounding back to tending to Imogen the very next day. It made it easy to forget that she’d been kneeling on the ground with Tobias and Mott while Feall fought for his life.

“Do you get what I was trying to say?” Roden snapped. “Renlyn is the reason Feall didn’t lose his head that night!”

“Don’t remind me,” Jaron rubbed his temples. He’d never hear the end of this one.

“Is- is this a joke?” Feall called from Renlyn’s room.

Jaron didn’t have the patience to stay to hear Renlyn’s stifled snicker.

He didn’t like it when he was wrong, and he’d been wrong in one of the worst ways.

He’d arrested a woman without full thought, and let Mireldis Thay escape.

“Get Ayvar, Roden, we’re going to fix this,” Jaron growled. “The longer we wait, the farther she’s run away.”

“And what will we do about Renlyn?” Roden asked.

“Nothing, I don’t want to deal with her just yet. We have a bandit to catch. Renlyn can sit in her gloating glory until we’ve got the right Mireldis Thay sitting in the dungeon.”

“This would be our third suspected Mireldis Thay, maybe we should give this fight up.”

“I’m so glad you can count that high! I don’t care if we catch a thousand false Thays, I will not accept this defeat!”


	20. A Circle of Stones

There were better ways to spend a midday break than being in the dungeons. The Roving River was starting to rise due to the recent storm, which meant that there were plants to be harvested. If Tobias wanted to feel musty, he could crawl through a cave with Fink.

And yet, there he was, talking to a man suspected of treason.

Talking to a man who’d helped somebody escape after attacking the king.

It wasn’t like he was helping various prisoners escape. He was checking in on those who were locked away.

There was no way he could go out into the city to help people if there were others suffering below his feet.

“How are you, commander?” Tobias asked, pulling at his dark green shirt sleeves. “I know you’re not from Avenia, but I figured you might like to know that King Jaron agreed to send aid to Avenia.”

The dungeon was illuminated with summer sunlight, which meant the flea-ridden rats would hide for a little while longer. Tobias wanted to see Regar, wanted to let him know that his situation wasn’t as dismal as it could be with somebody to talk to. However, talking to him was almost like talking to a brick wall.

“I thought I’d mention that Jaron- ah, the king will likely let you go, free of charge. He thinks you didn’t have anything to do with the Faola escape.”

Regar coughed, “That’s kind of him.”

“King Jaron is a good man, he’s trying to set a precedence of treating people with respect,” Tobias rambled. A spider crawled up the bars in Regar’s cell.

“Good, good, the world needs more men like that. You should see every person as a living, thinking, feeling thing. You muddle lines when you don’t.”

“You’re feeling chatty today! Not that I’m complaining, just noticing.”

“I’ll be getting another visitor,” Regar brushed down the front of his leather jerkin. “I don’t speak much, but it’s still odd being in silence.”

He was right about the silence.

The Carthyan dungeons were almost empty. Prisoners were kept at various distances apart when they could be. Apparently, it was in an attempt to prevent anybody from leading a prison revolt, but Tobias had only heard whispers of this.

Silence grew painful after a while.

If Jaron knew Tobias was talking to a man who was suspected of treason, he’d probably forbid Tobias from speaking to Regar. Or he wouldn’t. With each passing day, it was getting harder and harder to predict what Jaron was going to do. Just that morning, he’d canceled every meeting he had planned.

Only a fool would try to control Jaron, and only Imogen and Mott could get him to slow down long enough to tell somebody else what he was up to.

Regar plucked a piece of straw from his massive beard, “Tell me, Lord Branch, is it true that they caught Mireldis Thay and locked her in her rooms?”

“Ah, well, uh, we _think_ we have Mireldis Thay,” Tobias kicked at the ground.

“Perhaps she has you. Have you considered that?”

“She has- oh! You’re joking. My wife isn’t sure about it, about Mireldis being our prisoner, she thinks it’s dangerous. Ah, well, especially because she was able to hurt the king.”

“And the king imprisoned me for taking justice into my own hands.”

“Roden justifies it by saying you let Mireldis go.”

“By slipping?”

Tobias frowned. He had to stick with Roden’s account. Regar let the Faola go on purpose, not by tripping over his own feet. “It’s just to make sure that what you did was completely an accident.”

“You don’t need to explain,” Regar held his hands up. “But take this warning with you, my lord, there aren’t many people as forgiving as your king.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, not at all. I learned long ago not to go head to head with royalty. Mireldis Thay is a princess no matter what she wears or how she hides,” said Regar. He rubbed at both of his eyes, and sat down on his cot. “She knows how to play multiple sides while wearing a smile. It is a sin to assume a princess will remain in her tower. They are much more deadly than any headstrong prince.”

Had Regar ever said so much in one moment before? Tobias wasn’t sure. He hadn’t said that much since Tobias began coming to visit him.

There was an edge to his words. Something lurking.

The hidden truths and twisted facts were tiring Tobias. He missed the days of honesty. When people didn’t hide behind names and faces.

Although, he was a member of the royal court. It was very hard to find sincerity even without the threat or Mireldis Thay and her lust for Feall’s head.

“Did you know her?” Tobias asked, clasping his hands behind his back. “Did you help Mireldis Thay escape on that day Jaron was attacked?”

“You’re luring me into the noose, aren’t you?”

Tobias took a step back, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how to react to Regar’s comment.

He’d almost forgotten how close he was to Jaron, the supreme power in Carthya. Of course Regar would see Tobias not as a friend, but as somebody trying to draw out a confession.

And it stung.

It hurt knowing that Regar’s silence was weighed down by an impending punishment. It kept him quiet. Regar’s hesitation to speak came because he didn’t trust Tobias.

Didn’t trust him to keep their conversation between the two of them.

He tried to shove his shock away with a chuckle the same way Jaron pushed through awful news by making a joke. “Don’t worry, Regar, I’m a doctor. I save people, rather than leave them to die. And I think you’ll be able to plead your case tonight.”

“I did help someone that night,” Regar nodded. “But I didn’t help the bandit you and so many

others are bent on finding.”

“Then who was it?”

Somebody’s footsteps echoed down the stairs. Regar’s beard twitched up. He was smiling. “I

mustered the courage to speak to my daughter. I helped her chase chickens back into a pen.”

“They should make chicken chasing a sport,” Tobias said, trying to keep the conversation even.

It wasn’t his intention to catch Regar in a lie and turn him over to Jaron.

“I didn’t think you’d be here, Lord Branch,” said Merry, bowing till her short hair brushed the ground.

“Making a new friend. Have you met Commander Regar?”

She nodded, “I have. But I came here for another friend of mine. Have you seen Ayvar? She’s been here for several weeks, she has red hair.”

“They moved her to the tower ages ago,” Regar said. “Word is that the king released her yesterday.”

“They moved Ayvar?”

“Aye, lass, you won’t find her anywhere near here.”

“What do you have in the basket?” Tobias asked, he’d heard tales of the legendary lemon tarts being served at the Dragon’s Keep. Maybe he’d get one.

“It’s not important anymore,” Merry shrugged, but she withdrew two wrapped muffins. “You’re welcome to have these, I was going to give them to Ayvar, but it seems that my morning plans are canceled.”

“How’s your tavern?” Regar asked, holding his hand out for a muffin. He smirked when Tobias conceded and gave out one of the muffins.

A wide smile broke across Merry’s face, “It’s going well! Dawn’s convinced that I’m out drinking every night because I have a tendency to sleep in, but I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Best be getting your sleep, girl. Or you’ll be strung out like Master Branch here.”

“Hey! I am not strung out!” Tobias exclaimed, crossing his arms.

There were too many things that needed to be taken care of. Too many people to be patched up. Tobias knew that he was the best at doing what _he_ needed done. It was useless depending on another person when he was completely capable of handling a situation on his own.

Besides, he didn’t want to be let down by relying on another person, nor did he want to disappoint a person who was relying on him.

That’s why he wrote every paper, sewed every stitch, and checked on every patient.

Maybe he was a little high strung.

All he needed was his own.

And Amarinda, of course, but she was a force of nature all on her own. He kept up with her, and she kept up with him. Amarinda rose to every challenge. Nothing scared her. She knew her abilities, and she knew what was expected of her.

It was her efficiency and understanding that caught Tobias’s eye all those years ago.

Merry was laughing. Laughing in front of a man convicted under suspicions of treason.

He caught himself thinking about how nice it must’ve been to walk into a dungeon and be able to talk to anyone in sight. Merry’s fearless friendliness was something many people lacked.

It was a good talent to be envious of.

“I am, I am,” she insisted. “Do you know where Ayvar went, Lord Branch?”

Tobias shook his head, “I’m not the person to talk to regarding her. Captain Harlowe probably knows, you could ask him.”

“I’d hate to leave the two of you, it’s a little rude to come barging in on a conversation and then leave less than a minute later.”

“The muffins make up for it,” Regar’s beard was littered with crumbs.

“Glad you liked them, Dawn’s selling them to pocket a few more garlins today,” Merry said.

Market day! Farmers and crafters from all over Carthya selling their best products. Tobias had a list of things he needed for the physician's chambers. He’d try to take Amarinda with him this time as he pawed through every peddler’s stash of herbs.

He’d heard somewhere that somebody was bringing tools from Mendenwal to sell. Those tools would be the envy of every doctor in Drylliad.

“Ah, lass, do you mind taking a message back to my men?” Regar asked. He then looked to Tobias, “You don’t need to worry about me giving away secrets.”

“I’d be disappointed if you tried with me so close,” said Tobias, stepping a little to the left to make room for Merry.

“I’ll do my best to remember,” Merry nodded.

“Tell them to wait for a command from me,” Regar said, he didn’t appear to be hiding anything. “Unless they’re told about lines, they know what I mean when I say that.”

“But I don’t,” Tobias pointed out.

“It’s code. If Lord Row leaves without me, my men are to stay near until I can return to them. _If_ I return to them.”

Merry held her hand to her forehead, and brought it down. “Sir, yes, sir! Now, if you two will excuse me, I’ve got a friend to track.”

Tobias watched her spin on her heels and race back up the stairs. She seemed nice enough, a little rushed, but nice. And the muffins she made really were delicious. Ayvar was lucky to have a friend who’d track her down.

He looked back to Regar, who’d steepled his fingers together.

“I think I’ll take my leave too, there’s much that needs to be done today,” Tobias clasped his hands together. “I hope you can understand.”

“Your conversation makes things a little more bearable,” said Regar.

“Thanks. Some people grow bored.”

“Don’t worry about them.”

“I’ll try not to, but I am a doctor. And my dearest friend is a king who knows no fear. It’s my job to worry.”

\---------------------------------

Amarinda ultimately declined going to market day when Tobias offered. King Oberson finally worked up the courage to return home on the premise that Mireldis Thay was locked away in the castle tower. He’d leave as soon as market day ended. Lord Thomas Row also expressed his desires to leave, but only after Regar was released from the dungeon.

It was entirely possible that Lord Row would be staying there for several months.

Market day was bursting with people and food, even as the sun began to set.

Tobias wouldn’t let himself be tempted with the scent of spun sugar and roasting pears. Not again. Not this time. He’d saved as many garlins as he could for these tools, and he wouldn’t waste them on food.

Although he’d love at least-

No! He had to think of his profession!

Tobias pushed his hair out of his eyes, and soldiered past the carts and carts of food.

The fabric and ribbon carts came next. A page wearing an official looking tunic held out his hand for a green ribbon, giving a handful of garlins in return. The page bowed at Tobias, and then continued to his next cart.

He wondered who would be wearing that ribbon the following morning.

Vendors left and right hawked their wares. Some vendors had already left, leaving empty spaces every so often. The noise and temptation would’ve been much stronger during the afternoon. Tobias wouldn’t have stood a chance. He would’ve bought every bucket of spun sugar he could, even if it meant throwing it all up the very next day.

Lamplight glinted off of a cart full of throwing knives. He’d finally reached the metal carts.

Please let the tools still be there.

“Excuse me,” Tobias said, marching right up to one of the vendors. “I’m looking for medical tools, do you know where I could find them?”

It was like he’d walked into one of the hunting kennels with a piece of meat. Every vendor began shouting all of their items.

It almost reached the level of madness that some regents’ meetings had.

There were too many options, too many vendors to choose from. Tobias had to check every single one. If it weren’t for the list he’d made, he would’ve bought every single tool available for purchase.

“They used this tool to pull an arrow out of King Aranscot’s face!”

“This tool saved a queen from the western lands!”

“Only the best surgeons carry these! You’ll need it for cutting demons out of a man!”

Unfortunately for the last vendor, Tobias had no intentions of slicing an unseen entity out of a patient. His whole goal was to save, not to kill.

The tool that was supposedly used to pull an arrow from King Aranscot’s face resembled a pair of tongs. However, unlike the average pair of tongs, this pair had a screw in the middle with a series of tiny hooks at the end.

Arrow wounds were uncommon during days of peace, but it never hurt to be prepared.

The tongs felt heavy in Tobias’s bag, but welcome. This tool would save, and maybe Tobias would be known for pulling an arrow from somebody’s face.

Hopefully it wouldn’t be Jaron’s.

He stood in the middle of the street several strides away from the other vendors, watching the life and bustle of market day. Oberson’s soldiers intermingled with the other civilians. Pages darted left and right to fulfill their tasks before the vendors all left.

Ahead of him was lamplight and spun sugar.

Behind him was the scent of sorrow and the gaping holes leading down to the Vaults.

He frowned at the sight of the gutless buildings. People used to live there, but they’d been driven out.

Driven out by thieves and plague.

Driven out by the wicked presence of the Vaults. They’d always be there. Always lingering below the city.

Testifying that not every Carthyan wanted to move forward to a better kingdom.

They would fester in the ground for eternity like the corpses it hid.

People might be there- might be hiding in the Vaults. Roden told stories about what he’d seen down there, but only after he’d had an unhealthy dose of Libeth’s liquors.

Tobias was ready to return to the castle. He’d done what he needed to do. It was time to snuggle up to his wife and write letters to King Aranscot’s court to find out who’d pulled the arrow from King Aranscot’s face.

It wouldn’t hurt to check behind him. Wouldn’t hurt to locate a person in need.

The tugging of his heart grew too strong, but he ignored it. Tobias took one step forward, and then another. One of Oberson’s men stomped past. He was followed by two others.

One more step, one more step.

A man was selling toys. He held up a winding monkey that played the cymbals.

The music playing monkey almost drowned out the sounds of a scuffle.

Tobias spun on his heels, his bag smacking his leg and the tool inside jostled. The soldiers that walked past were gathered together. They moved together in perfect sync. A girl with scarlet hair struggled to get above them, and yet, she hadn’t screamed for help.

She didn’t need to.

Shouldering his bag, Tobias bolted toward the soldiers, trying to gather the courage to yell.

Somebody in a patched black cloak came rocketing from a second story window, landing on one of the soldiers before Tobias could reach them.

“Stop!” Tobias shouted. “Let her go!”

But not one person listened.

The patched cloak was all too familiar. Tobias skittered to a stop and pushed the hair from his eyes. The Faola had returned despite Renlyn Karise still being under a watchful eye. He kicked at the knees of one soldier, but the other three were focused on their other target.

How could he help? How could he help?!

Tobias called for help, foolishly turning his back to the Faola and Oberson’s soldiers. Was he too far? He swore he saw a page looking at them. Maybe it was too dark. Maybe the fight was encased in too much shadow to be seen by one of the vendors.

Somebody grabbed the back of his shirt.

Somebody dragged him back into the tight grip of a seasoned warrior.

An ice cold blade came too close to his neck. Tobias’s heart began to beat as if it knew it would soon have to stop.

“Let him go,” the Faola barked, his voice carried the harshness of a snakebite.

The harshness of a fatal wound being washed with salt water.

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” The soldier laughed. “You’ve got to choose. King Oberson is no fool. He knows that the girl in the castle is just a cover for you, he knows the man in the dungeons isn’t who he says he is.”  
  


“Nobody is who they say they are anymore,” Tobias choked, the sword at his throat threatening to cut his skin.

The Faola took a step back, moonlight glinting off of the messy stitches in the shoulders of his tunic. “I will not ask again, let him go.”

“You’ll have to choose between the girl and the regent.”

Tobias watched the Faola as he stepped back again. His saber hung at his side, waiting to be used. The man who’d once held Tobias hostage was now the only person who could save him.

“You’re not stupid enough to kill the ambassador’s husband,” the Faola bowed ever so slightly. “Please forgive me, Lord Branch. You’re more capable than you know.”

Picking up on combat signals was something Tobias never mastered. He couldn’t figure it out no matter how many times Roden tried to teach him.

But this time was different.

As the Faola charged towards the soldier, Tobias flung his head backwards as hard as he could. Stars shot across his vision. A sword clattered to the ground. He stumbled, tripping over the fallen soldier. The Faola dragged him out of the way, and kicked the soldier in the head.

“He won’t be waking up for a long time,” the Faola mused. He turned to face Tobias. “Get out of here, you’ll get hurt.”

Tobias rubbed the back of his throbbing head, “Ayvar is going to need help, I can’t-”

“Stay out of this, you’re going to get into trouble and it’s not your concern. If you really want to help, you’ll leave.”

“But-!”

The Faola didn’t stay to listen to Tobias’s argument. He jumped to his feet, the buildings all twirling around him. The spot where he’d thrown his head back into the soldier’s face was still tender.

With a swirl of his patched cloak, the Faola vanished into darkness, braving the impenetrable darkness of the Vaults to drag Ayvar back to the surface.

Tobias wasn’t the type to lead hundreds of men across a muddy field in hopes of winning a battle.

He was the type to fix the first person he saw.

To ask him to stay behind despite knowing somebody was in the hands of death was to ask the sun to cease shining.

He had no lamp and no sword, but he had his bag full of bandages and a knowledge of right and wrong.

Staying behind in this situation was wrong.

Tobias shoved his hair from his eyes, ignoring the metallic ice scraping in his veins, and took a step. He took another step, and another. His boots slapped against the moonlit stones.

Courage raced through his bones faster than his heart beat. No turning back, no turning back.

Abandon all hope, said the door to the vaults. There is no kindness here.

But they were wrong. Tobias nearly stumbled as he stepped into the Vaults, darkness threatening to close his throat. He would bring kindness. He would stop the soldiers from harming the Faola and Ayvar, and bring them all back to the surface.

The steps seemed to grow longer.

So he stepped even farther.

“Let go!” Someone bellowed.

“Catch him!”

“It’s a her, you idiot!”

“Catch her!”

Swords left their scabbards, they hit against each other in the darkness. Tobias paused for only a moment to rub his eyes as they adjusted to the moonless Vaults.

“I got her!” Yelled one man, followed by “She’s gotten away!”

Somebody shouted for Ayvar. The answer came in the form of a loud thud.

Tobias stumbled into a wide room, one of the walls was missing, a low archway letting in minimal light. Five figures fought against each other. Three longswords against a saber and a dagger.

“Hey!” Tobias yelled, freeing his pack from his shoulder.

What in the Devils’ names was he doing down there!?

A soldier charged toward Tobias, and he swung his bag as hard as he could at the soldier’s head.

Though he missed the blow, the bag swung around the soldier’s sword. Tobias recognized the entanglement before his opponent did, and he tugged, tossing both the bag and the sword to a shadowed corner.

He could barely make out the silhouette of the Faola and Ayvar, who were fighting side by side. Other gaping holes punctured the walls. They had to be staircases down, but Tobias didn’t know. He’d never been this far into the Vaults before.

The soldier roared at Tobias, and lunged for his neck.

However, that was the one defense Tobias managed to catch onto after hours of training with Roden. The soldier was attacking from the front, he could see the action unfurl. Tobias ducked down, and stepped to the side. His opponent’s shins smashed into the stairs leading to the surface.

“Take the path!” Ayvar said to the Faola, stepping in front of him. “I’ll follow you!”

The Faola nodded, and dashed into the farthest darkened doorway. Ayvar’s dagger locked against one of the soldiers’-

And the fight almost came to a standstill.

“Take us to her, and we won’t slit your throat,” said the soldier facing Ayvar.

She turned her face to Tobias. “And what about him?”

“He’s seen too much.”

They were going to kill him.

Tobias backed towards the open wall, his hands balled into pathetic little fists.

“No,” Ayvar snapped. “I won’t move.”

“Then I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

The soldier who’d initially fought with Tobias recovered from the blow to his shins. He drew a knife, a short little thing used for cutting meat.

Soon it would be cutting through Tobias.

Swords clashed again. Tobias looked to the two soldiers by Ayvar as they rushed down the steps after the Faola.

She was running towards him.

The third soldier ran past Ayvar, following his fellow men down the stairs. Tobias stared. There was a hand threatening to rip his arm off.

For the second time that night, somebody was dragging him backward.

“No!” He pushed away from Ayvar. “Can’t you see? They did this on purpose! They’re going to kill him!”

“Her,” Ayvar corrected. “Patches has a foot in the grave. We need to-”

“Save our own skins!? Is that what you’re going to say!?”

He was too angry to feel the chilling fingers of fear that surely reached for his heart. His hands shook.

There was something he needed.

Tobias pulled a ring from his fourth finger; his wedding band. “Get to the first Carthyan soldier you can find, and tell him Lord Branch needs help. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

“You can’t just go down there, lordship,” Ayvar grunted.

“Oh, but I can.”

Silently, Ayvar nodded. She took the ring, and darted off into the night.

They were both depending on the Saints to let someone be near enough to help.

The scent of burning metal was what guided Tobias down the right path. He ignored the lines of blood made by victims trying to drag themselves away from their abusers. There was no light to guide him; only a smell that rose above the stench of human suffering.

How much time had it taken him to fumble his way down the stairs?

He had to pat the wall and tap around the floor to find the next step.

His attempted rescue wouldn’t be grand. Wouldn’t be filled with chivalry and a gleaming sword. It would be stumbled and slow.

But a rescue all the same.

Tobias winced as he stepped down the last stair. The room he’d stepped into was much darker than the one he’d left. He shuffled forward, trying to listen to sounds of scuffling.

The toe of his boot hit the hilt of a discarded blade.

A discarded saber.

Dull thudding soon joined the scent of hot metal. The Faola was still fighting. Tobias shuffled forward again, the dull light of a fire catching his eye. Shadows danced around it.

There were no other rooms or halls that Tobias would investigate.

“Let me go!” Bellowed a girls’ voice.

“Hold her still, the mark needs to be-” said a man, one of the soldiers. A dull thud ended his sentence.

It was matched with a sharp slap.

“I said hold her down!”

“Let me go!”

Time. The Faola was running out of time. Tobias was running out of time.

Fabric tore. Somebody’s screaming was muffled. Ringing echoed out of the firelit room.

Just another step, Tobias. Almost there. Almost there.The stone doorway was within his reach. He could race in, grab the Faola, and get out. Sword or no sword. Nobody needed to get hurt. It was his duty to save. He could do it- he could-

The first thing he focused on was the circle of stones around his feet, not the muffled shriek and sudden change in smells.

The soldiers inside the room rushed out, one of them holding a cooled branding iron.

Tobias didn’t bother to hold his hands above his head, he knew what was coming.

A blade met the swinging iron.

Alistair Derforgall grabbed the iron, and threw it at the soldier on his right. Tobias turned his head, looking behind him to see Jolly brandishing his lute, Ayvar, and surprisingly, Renlyn Karise.

“You’re not out of the woods yet!” Renlyn barked, dragging Tobias into the firelit room with her.

Jolly’s lute crashed through the head of one of the soldiers, sending him down to the ground.

Tobias would rather watch the fight in the hall rather than look at the vomit covered Faola in the room. Burnt flesh seared his nose. He was almost ready to vomit himself. A small fire burned in the room, hot enough to heat a sword.

“Saints, neither of you were supposed to get into trouble,” Renlyn growled. She rushed to the Faola’s side, and peeled off the scarf covering her mouth. “Tobias, turn around.”

“Let me help, I can-!” He tried, but Renlyn’s emotionless voice reared up for the first time since he met her.

“By the Saints Lord Branch, you will look away! You can’t talk about what you can’t see!”

Mireldis Thay. He was standing beside Mireldis Thay. She was there at his feet, covered in her own vomit and nursing a branded hand.

All it would take was one look and the entire ordeal would be over.

But he couldn’t.

He’d been told not to.

It was his fault that Mireldis was lying there. He’d let this moment happen by stopping Roden from executing her on that summer afternoon so many eons ago.

None of this would’ve happened if he’d forgotten his compassion for one moment.

So he looked away.

Jolly slipped into the room, followed by Alistair. His face fell. “What do we do?”

“Describe the wound,” Tobias said, his eyes glued to the wall. “Chances are that she’ll need to be taken somewhere cleaner to keep the wound from getting infected.”

“They branded her. The flesh has bubbled and she threw up,” Renlyn explained.

“Just cut- just cut the hand off,” begged Mireldis Thay. Her voice, so strained and pitiable, was too familiar. “It’s too hard. It hurts.”

He’d spoken to her before.

Renlyn coughed, “Come hold her, Jolly, she’ll respond to you.”

Tobias clamped his hands over his eyes. “The wound needs to be cooled, apply a lavender compress once you’ve done that.”

“We’ll have to smuggle her into the castle, nobody would have that this late at night,” Jolly said. “Alistair, how do you feel about sneaking around?”

“Call it by another name, something a little more honest,” said Alistair. He was standing near Tobias, judging by the volume of his voice. “I will not lie.”

Mireldis groaned, earning a tiny hush from Jolly. “We, ah, we’re taking a cloak up to Renlyn’s rooms to compare certain soaps.”

“Exactly,” Renlyn said. “We’ll compare a hair soap against a skin soap. Jolly, you lead, that way Tobias can look.”

“Don’t use this as an excuse to leave me behind,” Tobias muttered as somebody shuffled past him.

“You can open your eyes,” Renlyn set a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Don’t ask me to do that again. I could help-”

“And then you would have to turn your patient in for crimes against the crown. It’s better this way.”

A blue hair ribbon lingered on the ground.

A shadow crossed Renlyn’s face as she began walking forward. Her brows knit together, and for a moment, Tobias swore her bottom lip began to tremble.

However, Renlyn forced a frown on her face, “I’ll explain my relation to Thay if you want.”

“I don’t want all of it,” Tobias shook his head, bile rising in his throat. “Did you know her before coming to Drylliad?”

“We met on the night I came to serve her Majesty. Not before then.”

“Has she told you why she wants Feall dead?”

“Not exactly, but our mutual friend isn’t as clean as he claims. Tonight is an example of that. Ayvar was released as a sacrificial lamb, if Alistair hadn’t agreed to let me walk the streets tonight under his supervision, you three would be dead. You would’ve been left as rat food.”

Tobias rubbed his temples. He didn’t want to think about ‘what ifs’ any longer.

They were unavoidable.

“I’ll help you smuggle Mireldis to safety,” Tobias stood up, the firelight that heated Mireldis’s branding iron throwing his shadow into the hall. “A friend of yours is a friend of mine, Renlyn, and I won’t send a friend to the executioner’s block. But she can’t stay in Drylliad. Not while she’s trying to kill Feall, regardless of his past sins.”

“And if he’s trying to kill her too?” Renlyn didn’t look back as she climbed up the bloodied stairs. “I won’t let you keep a secret from your friends Tobias, they’re too important to you.”

“We need somebody to tell the truth.”

“No, it’s time to let Mireldis go. I’ll have her taken-”

“Don’t tell me where, I won’t keep it secret.”

“You’re a good man, Lord Branch.”

The moonlight stung his eyes once he and Renlyn finally left the vaults. Jolly nodded at Alistair, and hugged Mireldis even tighter to his chest.

She looked small.

Nothing like the furious bandit willing to throw a blow at the king in order to fulfill her lust for revenge.

He couldn’t think of any words to say as he trudged to the castle, Renlyn, Alistair, and Jolly all slightly ahead of him.

Thoughts filled his head, swimming through everything he knew. He’d chosen to let Mireldis Thay go. He was smuggling her into the castle.

All because he couldn’t bear the thought of a young woman succumbing to a treatable wound.

Tobias made a choice long ago. He’d dug his own grave, and now he was settling into the coffin that would soon fill it.


	21. Morn o'the Saints

He watched from his throne, it was better that way. It would keep him from sneezing and scaring Imogen’s cream colored cat.

Jaron stretched his arms above his head, his mind lingering on Renlyn Karise. She’d been escorted on a stroll outside. Lieutenant Alistair was under strict orders not to let her talk to anybody.

Especially not Jolly.

Truth be told, Jaron wasn’t entirely sure that Jolly was as innocent as he pretended to be. He knew something, and his stubborn adoration of Mireldis Thay was ruining Jaron’s plans.

And Jaron really didn’t want Jolly knowing he was the one to accuse Renlyn of being Mireldis Thay.

“I finally named her,” Imogen said, dangling a ribbon above the cat’s head. “I’m going to call her-”

“Please say Beanstalk,” Jaron said, leaning against the arm of his throne and kicking his feet up on the other.

“Why would I name her Beanstalk?”

“Because it’s funny.”

Imogen rolled her eyes, “I was going to say Edelweiss like the flower.”

“Beanstalk is better.”

“No it’s not!”

Jaron sat up, “We’ll have a contest then. If the cat answers to Beanstalk, that’s her name. If she answers to Edelweiss, then that’s what we’ll call her.”

“I don’t want to play this game,” Imogen said, pulling the cat onto her lap. “You probably have a treat and you’re going to trick her into coming to you.”

“That’s not true!”

Except that it was. He’d begged the cook to try a recipe specifically for the cat, and then he stole one of the treats as they cooled before Imogen could have them brought up to her. It made his pocket smell like fish and catmint.

He hated it, but he’d let his pockets reek like fish if it meant almost being able to name Imogen’s cat Beanstalk.

“Here Beanstalk! Here kitty!” Jaron pulled the treat from his pocket, and threw it to the cat. “I did have a little something extra up my sleeves, sorry Imogen. But she does answer to Beanstalk, so I think she likes it.”

“I’m not naming my cat Beanstalk,” said Imogen.

Imogen’s cat, deemed Beanstalk Edelweiss, pawed the treat around. Her huge eyes seemed to grow when she brushed the treat away. Beanstalk Edelweiss dropped to a crouch, and launched herself at the treat.

“Oh, Beanstalk Edelweiss, what I wouldn’t give to be able to hold you without sneezing.”

“Stop calling her Beanstalk!”

“Good job catching that imaginary mouse, Beanstalk.”

“Jaron!” Imogen scowled.

“Yes, my wondrous sunbeam?” He forced himself to look innocent, and leapt off of his throne.

Imogen wasn’t having it.

She glared at Jaron as he stepped over the cat, and held both of his hands out to her.

Though she hated the teasing, Jaron enjoyed it. Her face often scrunched up when she grew annoyed, but would ultimately soften after a few moments. Imogen couldn’t stay mad at him, and he couldn’t stay mad at her.

Her hands were shy as butterfly wings. Jaron broke into a smile when she finally accepted his invitation.

However, the smile left when Imogen pulled him from his feet, catching him in her lap before his head could hit the ground. She smirked, and tucked his head into the cook of her arm.

“We’re not calling the cat Beanstalk,” Imogen tapped his nose.

Jaron tapped his cheek, “Give me a kiss right here, and maybe I’ll think about it.”

He set his hand down on the floor, and when Imogen moved to kiss his cheek, pushed himself up to meet her halfway.

Imogen’s fingers tangled in his hair, threatening to knock his circlet from his head. Not that it mattered, hardly anybody came in to speak to the king during this time of night. Normal people would be in bed. Normal people would’ve been exhausted from market day.

Though Jaron and Imogen were hardly normal people.

He wrapped his arms around Imogen’s waist, pulling her closer to him. Closer and closer and-

The throne room doors slammed open.

That was how Oberson saw them when he stomped in with his lieutenant at his side; Jaron and Imogen locked in a kiss.

“Your Majesty!” Oberson’s voice was the equivalent of a hammer against stone. “I have important news!”

“Please be that he’s leaving,” Imogen murmured to Jaron as he sat up.

“What is it, King Oberson?” asked Jaron. “I was clearly busy.”

Oberson clapped his hands, and stepped aside as ten of his guards marched in. Their clattering metal boots alarmed Beanstalk Edelweiss, leading to her bolting for cover beneath Jaron’s throne. An echo bounced through the throne room the moment they stopped marching.

The doors slammed shut, only for the doors on the opposite side of the room to slam open. Commander Regar stood in the middle, his hands chained together and Roden lingering behind him.

“Commander Regar requested an audience with you, your Majesty,” Roden declared. He frowned at Oberson, “I would suggest talking to him first regarding his fate.”

“I am a king, I hold precedence over a captain of a guard,” Oberson growled.

Jaron stood up, pulling Imogen to her feet with him. “Nonsense, I think I’ll listen to Roden first, he was more polite than you, King Oberson.”

The spluttering Oberson made was laughable. “Excuse me?”

There was something about Oberson’s manicured goatee and pompous desire to be heard first that triggered an instant desire to punch him in the face.

If there wasn’t a threat of war behind that action, Jaron would’ve done it. He hadn’t bashed somebody’s nose in for several months. Humbling an arrogant man was something long overdue.

“You’re excused. Roden, bring Commander Regar forward, I will listen to his-”

“What I have to say carries the utmost importance!”

“And you will speak in due time!” Jaron snapped. He slipped an arm around Imogen’s waist, and turned to Roden. “What makes you think I’ll give you what you want?”

“Because, your Majesty, I’ve had a lot of time to think for myself,” Regar stood taller. “Is Lord Branch nearby?”

“Lord Branch is-.”

He never had the chance to finish his sentence.

“Lord Branch is conspiring against the crown!” Oberson bellowed. He reached for one of his soldiers, and dragged him to the front. “Look what he and his allies did to one of my soldiers!”

The man, who was tall and fair, held his hand to his heart. A large foot-shaped bruise covered the side of his face. “It’s true, your Majesty. There was a situation in the square by your vendors, and we were attacked by a young woman and another masked assailant. Lord Branch interfered.”

“Tobias got in the way of a fight?” Imogen’s brow furrowed together. “What did you do to him!?”

“Call him in,” the fair soldier rolled his shoulders back. “He won’t be here, last we saw him he was running off into the night with five others.”

Jaron could feel Imogen’s eyes on him. The choice was his. He could appease Oberson and have Tobias brought to the throne room, or brush Oberson’s accusations off.

It was impossible to think of. Impossible to imagine Tobias worming his way into a matter of hand-to-hand combat so casually. Tobias did what he could to seal breaches. He was a peacemaker.

But Tobias would throw himself into the hands of danger if he knew a person was depending on him.

A silent agreement passed between Jaron and Imogen. They would go to check on Tobias themselves.

He called for Mott, no man in his right mind would go into any situation without somebody like him at their side.

Every ally was needed. Jaron stared at Oberson, and tightened his grip at Imogen’s waist. There were too many things going on at once. Now Tobias was involved, or at least that’s what Oberson was insisting on.

Really? Tobias fighting off an armed soldier?

“We’ll go and look for him ourselves,” Jaron stood tall. He looked to Mott, who nodded and took Roden’s position by Regar, “I’ll make sure my right hand man is here to make you feel comfortable, King Oberson.”

“Ah, that won’t be necessary, your Majesty. My men and I will accompany you. If Tobias returned, he will be with a young woman with a mark on her hand, restraining her is the highest priority,” said Oberson.

“What’s her name?” Regar growled, his beard was almost bristling. He shrugged forward after Mott set a hand on his shoulder.

“Mireldis Thay, Commander Regar.”

“That’s impossible, she’s-”

“Finally within the grasp of justice.”

Mott cleared his throat, “What will we do with Commander Regar?”

“Leave him here, Mott, with you,” Jaron set his jaw forward. “So help me Saints, Regar, if you try anything it will be your last attempt.”

He was bluffing, Jaron had no intention of carelessly tossing out executions. What he needed was an incentive for Regar to hold still.

A fear of death often prompted people to hold still.

Another feeling lingered in Jaron’s mind; he’d be getting at least one answer before the night was over.

“Take my hand,” Imogen murmured. She’d taken a few steps forward, probably preparing herself for the worst.

Jaron didn’t need to be told twice. With Imogen’s hand in his, he left the throne room, Oberson and his men trailing behind them.

The walk to Tobias’s chamber was longer than Jaron was used to. He blamed it on the fact that something sour was crawling up his throat. The mask he’d plastered on his face couldn’t fail him. If it did, Oberson would surely use it against him.

He paused, staring up the curving staircase that would take them to Tobias.

Each step he took was like walking through mud.

They made it halfway up the stairs before Regar came crashing through the throne room doors. His face was almost as red as his beard. Mott was leaning against the throne room door with his arms crossed.

“I think Regar holds precedence in this situation,” Mott called.

“We’ve established that-!” Jaron jerked his attention back up the stairs.

There stood Tobias, Jolly, Alistair, Renlyn, and Ayvar.

Ayvar waved a hand, her other was strapped into a sling. She realized her mistake, and bowed, “Sorry to disturb you, your Highness.”

Too many things were happening at once. Jaron’s attention was torn between Regar and Tobias. He held onto Imogen’s hand a little tighter than before.

It felt like he’d drift away if he let go of her.

“Tobias,” said Jaron. “King Oberson had me convinced that you’d assaulted one of his men.”

“Oh! It wasn’t me who did the assaulting,” Tobias’s eyes flicked left and right, like he was looking for somebody to swing out of nowhere in order to box his ears. “But I did catch Oberson’s men trying to beat Ayvar.”

“It’s true,” Alistair gestured to Ayvar. “Look what they did to her hand.”

When he was a child, Jaron faked his fair share of injuries. He’d perfected the art, but it took several years to do so. His flaw when using a sling was always putting his hand a little too far forwards.

Ayvar was making the exact same mistake.

“And they tried to use Tobias as a hostage,” Jolly pointed out.

Tobias made a face, “Forgot about that.”

Everyone in his small band looked at him with varying levels of concern. Renlyn frowned, “You- you forgot about somebody holding a sword to your throat?”

“It’s been a busy night!”

Oberson stomped his foot, “This is a farce! The woman we’re looking for has a brand upon her hand, not a scratch made by a fingernail!”

“You didn’t say the mark on her hand was a brand,” said Jaron, turning to look at Oberson. “That kind of physical attack is prohibited on Carthyan soil.”

“You have no laws-”

“I do, actually. In Carthya, we do our best to treat people as human beings. Not every kingdom does the same, but I expect my guests to follow our rules. King or not.”

“My men found Mireldis Thay, she attacked them, and they fought back,” Oberson said. “I know she’s here.”

“Tobias has nothing to hide,” said Alistair.

Did they really think Jaron wouldn’t hear the hissing shushes they all gave?

He looked directly at Alistair. “Tell me then, Alistair, is Mireldis Thay in Drylliad?”

The large room, often filled with noise, became so quiet, Jaron could hear Beanstalk Edelweiss’s tiny mews. Alistair’s cheeks colored.

“I can tell you where she’s not,” Alistair’s toes turned toward each other. “She’s not in Avenia, and she’s not in Eberstein.”

“Did you see Mireldis Thay enter the castle?”

Renlyn shoved an elbow between Alistair’s ribs, and he forced a tiny smile. “No, no I didn’t.”

“There’s your answer, Oberson,” Jaron tucked his arm around Imogen’s waist. “Alistair didn’t see Mireldis enter the castle.”

“Then where’s your captain?” Oberson said. “Is he smuggling her out?”

“Quite the contrary, you placed a high charge against a regent of my court and the husband of Bymar’s princess. Captain Harlowe left to get Princess Amarinda, she deserves to know that a lesser king of Bymar is accusing her husband of treason.”

A wide ‘O’ formed in Oberson’s face.

Which made Jaron smirk.

He’d managed to stump Oberson. Mott had tried telling Jaron multiple times to pick his battles, but he rarely heeded Mott’s advice. Until tonight, that is. He was going to fight every battle he could for now.

But that didn’t mean some didn’t hold priority.

Wiping that smug look off of Oberson’s face would’ve satisfied Jaron at one point, although, times had changed. He’d had answers dangled in front of him for far too long. It wasn’t fair for them to be kept from him any longer.

“What is it you needed to say, Regar?” Jaron called down.

“My lord, I-,” Regar began.

However, Oberson didn’t accept his defeat. He ordered two of his men up the stairs. “I know she’s here! I found her myself, running around wearing a mask! She fights with a saber and hides during the day at-!”

“You’ve been looking for the wrong Thay!” Bellowed Regar, his voice threatening to shake the castle. “It’s me! It’s been me the entire time! My name is Graer Thay, and you will stop this hunt for Mireldis at once!”

Regar’s confession rang through the staircase, echoing out of the windows.

Nobody could’ve missed it.

Jaron heaved in a breath, resisting the urge to make a comment. He struggled to hide a triumphant smirk as he looked at Mott.

After all, he’d been right despite his inner circle trying to shut down his idea. It was outlandish, yes, but incredibly clever. Jaron hadn’t suspected Regar’s identity until he began reading letters late at night.

When rearranged, Regar spelled Graer. It was difficult to catch. Not many people looked to rearrange names.

“Don’t say it,” Tobias rubbed his temples. “Jaron, don’t-”

“I told you so,” he said. “You should’ve listened. ‘Oh, Jaron, we’re having a serious meeting, don’t say things like that’, serves you all right.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Oberson demanded. “He’s a war criminal, and he helped his daughter escape after attempting to kill you!”

“Oberson, this is-”

“No! I demand Graer’s head! His crimes occurred in my home, not yours!”

“This is my kingdom!” Jaron roared. “You listen to me while you’re in my home!”

Unfortunately, Oberson didn’t. He pointed at Graer Thay, “Guards! Arrest that man and take him to the courtyard! I’ll-”

“King Oberson, King Jaron, I do hate to interrupt your argument, but as of now, Graer Thay and his men work for me,” Renlyn said, her voice as level as Falstan lake when it froze. “Which means, King Oberson, you will not only be killing a man who hasn’t directly harmed you, but you will be killing an employee of mine.”

Renlyn took a step forward, her long blonde hair drifting across her face, “Do not underestimate the lengths I will go to in order to protect those who work for me. The repercussions will affect your kingdom for generations to come, I will promise you that.”

Graer held his hands together and bowed his head for a moment.

Jaron looked to Oberson, resisting the urge to dismiss him. He had every right to kick Oberson out of the castle, he’d overstayed his welcome.

He’d probably leave on his own.

The urge for an answer was almost quelled. It wasn’t what Jaron wanted. He _wanted_ to know where Mireldis Thay was, and he suspected that Alistair, Tobias, Renlyn, Jolly, and Ayvar all knew more than they let on.

But now wasn’t the time to push it.

Not with Oberson barking for somebody’s head.

Jaron wouldn’t cave into the demands of another arrogant king. He wouldn’t bow. It wasn’t in him. He knew what he stood for, and the moment he faltered, his example would crumble.

“By the Saints,” said Amarinda, her dressing gown wrapped around her. “It’s madness out here!”

“That it is! But, we’ve found a Thay,” Jaron pressed a kiss to Imogen’s cheek. “I’d say it’s worth it.”

“You’re telling me that Commander Regar is indeed Graer Thay?” Amarinda left Roden’s side to stand by Tobias.

“It’s the beard,” Graer said, gesturing to the mass of red hair shooting out of the lower half of his face.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Get this man a bed,” Jaron stood a little taller. “He has many answers to give, and I doubt he’ll give them without a good night’s rest. Do you have any other fingers to point, Oberson? There are other things I need to tend to rather than a young woman you’re obsessed with chasing.”

Oberson stiffened, “That is all, your Majesty.”

“And will you be staying for our observance of the Morning of the Saints?”

“I will-,” Oberson scowled, but relaxed into a placid expression. “I will be leaving tomorrow, actually, if that’s permissible.”

“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Jaron said.

He sincerely hoped that Oberson would leave him alone.

\--------------------------------------------------

The Morning of the Saints always occurred on a church day, and often followed market day. To Jaron, it meant being able to sleep in snuggled up to Imogen. He’d put on his crown and some ridiculous coat and lead his regents to the chapel, where they’d pray and sing before leaving for a grand feast.

Because he knelt at the front of the chapel, terrorizing Roden and Tobias was out of the question.

But it would give him time to think of every question he had for Graer Thay. Jaron would get the answers he needed, and possibly talk Graer into helping him search for Mireldis.

It was going to be a long day.

When he woke up, Imogen was at her vanity, brushing her hair. Beanstalk Edelweiss was curled up at her feet.

“Good morning, Beanstalk,” Jaron yawned, sitting up in his bed. A slight breeze brushed across his shoulders, and he tugged a blanket over himself to keep warm. “Any wild, prophetic dreams, Imogen?”

She set the hairbrush down, “Yes, actually. I had a dream where you stopped calling my cat Beanstalk.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“Oh yes it is,” Imogen insisted. She reached back, and began to braid her hair, “I was thinking about having the walls painted again.”

Ah, the walls of their room. Always blank and always covered in plaster. Jaron scratched his head, “I like the chips, it’s very decorative.”

“I want to employ an artist to paint after the plaster has been redone. I’ve been talking with Renlyn-”

“Renlyn wants all of my money.”

“-and she’s told me how important it is to promote artistry. Really, Jaron, I think it’s a good idea.”

“So long as you do it of your own free will and not because Renlyn made an offhand comment about how the queen of Mendenwal has every wall in her castle painted with different scenes,” Jaron said.

“She _does_ have every wall in her castle painted,” Imogen waved her hand. “I think it would look nice.”

“It would, but I’d like to see at least one dragon. Please, that’s all I ask.”

“I can work with a dragon.”

Jaron nearly rolled off the bed, but managed to catch himself at the last minute. His nose began to tickle. He could risk a few sneezes if it meant being closer to Imogen.

A loud knock caught Beanstalk Edelweiss off guard. She jumped to her feet.

“A moment!” Jaron called, tossing the blanket back to the bed.

The knocking turned into pounding. Roden’s voice was muffled by the door, “We don’t have a moment!”

“It better be important,” said Jaron as he opened the door.

Roden was dressed head to toe in chain mail, his right side entirely protected with plates of armor. His helmet was tucked under his arm.

Battle armor.

“Get dressed,” Roden ordered. “Oberson’s decided he’s going to go out with a fight. Take a look out the window.”

Sure enough, the last of Oberson’s guards were marching out of the courtyard with their halberds held high.

Just over the castle walls, Jaron could see a line of people.

“Get down there as quickly as you can,” he barked, racing over to his dresser. He wouldn’t have time for armor, he’d have to settle for a tunic and a mail shirt. “Keep a defensive line up, keep as many people alive as you can, do you know why he did this?”

“He claims he saw an assassin fleeing the castle,” Roden frowned. “Said Mireldis Thay tried to kill him.”

“I’m sick of the lies, take as many men as you can and stop Oberson. I’ll bring the others. Roden, we can’t let this turn into a massacre. Imogen, I need you to-”

“Find the answers, I’m on it,” she said, tugging a long tunic over her head. She reached for a gold rope from her vanity, and tied it around her waist. “Be careful, Jaron, please.”

The mail shirt in his hand was heavy. Jaron leaned in, and kissed Imogen’s cheek. “I will, I promise. Can you help me with the shirt?”

A new weight fell onto his shoulders, and it wasn’t just the chain mail shirt hanging from his frame.

He should’ve seen this coming.

He should’ve been able to guess that Oberson would do whatever he had to in order to get his way. It was what almost everyone in a position of power did. They stepped on people’s lives and families, not caring who was damaged so long as they got what they wanted.

Oberson would stop at nothing to get somebody’s head on a stake, and with Graer under Renlyn’s protection, Mireldis was the only option.

Jaron pulled Imogen in for another kiss. “Good luck, and I trust you’ll know where to look.”

“I know how to catch little truths,” she flashed a smile. “Promise me you’ll come back?”

“Only if you let me call your cat Beanstalk.”

“We’ll discuss it upon your return, love.”

With his heart in his throat, Jaron fled his room. The castle walls blurred together, he took the steps two at a time.

Ingrithay’s lines and lines of bloody walls and kitchens rang through Jaron’s head as he dodged maids.

The words changed. Changed to fit Oberson’s final strike at Mireldis Thay.

Mott must’ve heard the news. He was waiting outside the castle doors with Jaron’s sword in his hand, lines and lines of soldiers marching into their places.

“Thank you,” Jaron panted. He strapped his sword around his waist, and pushed his hair back. “Where’s Mystic, where’s-?”

“Mystic is being saddled as we speak, he’ll be out soon,” Mott tilted his chin up. “I think it’s best if we skip flowery speeches and get right into helping Roden.”

“Do you know anything?”

“I know that there’s going to be a lot of trouble waiting for us, and that Oberson needs to leave as soon as possible.”

A pair of pages brought out Mystic and a speckled mare for Mott. Both horses wore armor on their chests and heads.

The pounding of Jaron’s heart served as his drumbeat. He swung into Mystic’s saddle, ignoring the pain in his leg that reminded him of what happened in his last fight. Looking over the soldiers for one last time, Jaron forced himself to take a breath.

He prayed that the Saints would guide his sword and guide Oberson out of the city.

They didn’t deserve a massacre on their holy day.

“Our plan is to subdue and defend!” Jaron drew his sword. “A single drop of blood spilled is too much, the Saints will be with us.”

But it didn’t feel like it. Not as Jaron pointed his sword to the gate, and led his soldiers and Mott down into the streets of Drylliad.

If there was anyone walking the cobblestones, Jaron didn’t see them. He kept his eyes glued to the middle of the road, looking for any sign of Oberson’s men.

He could hear the fight long before he could see it.

Cries for assistance, the ringing of swords hitting against each other.

A woman shouting to get back. To form a line.

Feet pounding against the stones.

Jaron didn’t say a word as he urged Mystic to hurry, the soldiers behind him marching faster as well.

They passed the masked corpse of a Faola, and not far from the fallen bandit lay one of Oberson’s men, soaked in his own blood with a dagger in his back.

There would be more corpses.

Half of Oberson’s men were standing in rows across the square, just outside of the Dragon’s Keep. There were too many to count without taking time away from reaching a peaceful end. They were too far away to see. Jaron couldn’t find a trace of King Oberson anywhere.

The other half were fighting against Carthyan soldiers and-

And bandits. Both masked and unmasked.

“Give up your arms, or die!” Roden barked, the clashing swords fading. “You’re surrounded and outmatched!”

“You can see the brand on her hand!” Roared one of Oberson’s soldiers. “Give us Mireldis Thay and no one else has to suffer!”

One of the Faola stood out. The right sleeve had been torn off, and the left one had been sewn back on. She fought with her left hand, the right was bandaged up to her elbow.

Mireldis kicked at a soldier running toward her, and when he swiped at her head, she ducked. With her dagger, she cut the back of the man’s thigh, and moved on.

She ran and reached for Roden with her right hand, he swung her over to a trio of Oberson's soldiers ganging up on a Faola. Her dagger cut through the man’s tunic.

Other Faola weren’t so lucky. Blood splattered against Mystic’s hooves and stained Jaron’s boot.

The leftover rain puddles were dark and red.

Some of them were covered with the masked corpses of fallen Faola.

Jaron moved to dismount, but Mott held out a hand. He was scowling, “Stay on your horse, send your men forward.”

“Find a Carthyan and fight beside him!” Jaron ordered, holding Mystic’s reins in one hand and his sword in the left.

The first two lines of soldiers poured through Oberson’s men, rushing to help their brothers in arms. Those who remained charged forward, holding their blades against Oberson’s other men.

A Faola, trapped between three of Oberson’s men, twirled into one, using him as a shield. The Faola managed to take down another man, but didn’t check behind him, falling as another soldier ran them through.

“Get back!” Mireldis shouted, waving her bandaged hand. “Ulspierre! We have to cut our losses!”

A young man with ginger hair only laughed, “I’m just getting started!”

Several of the Faola caught onto Mireldis’s order, and many of them turned and ran. Oberson’s men would’ve followed if it weren’t for a new thundering sound.

“Your men too, Captain!” She ordered.

Roden called for a retreat, and stood back to back with Mireldis as both of their warriors fled to safety. Oberson’s men would’ve followed if it weren’t for a new thundering sound.

Men and women carrying all sorts of weapons poured out of the Dragon’s keep. They wore no uniform, only the clothes they’d brought with them. As more Faola heeded Mireldis’s warning, Graer’s men moved together, forming a line across the street.

One of Oberson’s men got too close to a mercenary, and was clubbed out of the way.

Graer’s mercenary army was holding a line of defense.

“You can’t win!” Roden declared. “You’re surrounded!”

“Give us Mireldis Thay!” Countered one of Oberson’s men. “That’s all we ask! Nobody else will be punished, I give you my word!”

“Quite the contrary,” called Jaron. “I have every intention of charging everyone involved here with treason.”

He leapt off of Mystic, ignoring Mott’s quiet plea to keep a safe distance from the fight. Jaron had seen enough.

“Who ordered this attack?” He asked, his sword growing heavy.

Nobody answered.

Something hateful and fiery reared up in his chest. Jaron couldn’t ignore it, “Tell me who ordered this attack!”

“Oberson sent his men after me,” Mireldis called. “I ran, my friends came to help, and Oberson’s buffoons slaughtered us.”

“You won’t find him here, Jaron,” Roden added. He stepped forward, sword trained on a soldier. “He left the city hours ago.”

If he arrested each one of Oberson’s soldiers, he’d have no room in the dungeons. If he sent them on to regroup with Oberson, he’d be giving an enemy more power.

He couldn’t just execute them all.

Jaron walked to the middle of the battleground, and stood beside Roden. Mireldis had stepped back, joining the line of mercenaries.

“Surrender now,” Jaron ordered. “Your king left you for dead.”

The man he was addressing swallowed, his eyes flicking to the side. “King Jaron, I-”

“Surrender and I’ll be willing to listen to your excuses.”

An idea was forming in the back of his mind.

There was a mercenary commander who’d jump at the thought of expanding his army.

“I don’t have all day,” said Jaron, pointing his sword at the man. “I’ll give you to the count of-”

“We surrender, we surrender,” the man held his hands above his head. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise, King Oberson insisted that we were doing him a favor, he claimed that you weren’t doing anything to help him and that Mireldis Thay attempted to kill him last night, we were only doing as we were told, I swear it!”

One matter was out of the way.

And now he’d finally cornered the Faola responsible for the mess.

He’d finally managed to corner Mireldis Thay.

Sheathing his sword, Jaron turned around. “Lady Thay, I can promise you safety if you- where did she go?”

“Where did who go?” Roden arched an eyebrow.

There was a trick Jaron taught himself in order to keep himself from speaking without thinking. He counted to ten over and over again until he could think of a comment that didn’t include cursing somebody’s mother’s grave.

He counted to ten once, twice, three times. Four times.

“How do you lose,” Jaron pinched the bridge of his nose. “A woman?”

“You forget to give her food?” Tried the ginger young man, Ulspierre.

Jaron spun around, and pointed at Ulspierre, “Funny joke, but I’m not in a good mood. Tell me, Roden, did you let Mireldis Thay escape? Did she get away from me for a second time?!”

“Mireldis is a slipper girl, King Jaron, you can’t blame your captain,” Ulspierre yawned. “Ask the line of mercenaries, they’ve been oddly quiet.”

Bodies lingered on the cobblestones, their glassy eyes staring, never to be closed again.

It was hard to focus.

A massacre happened on a holy day.

“Forget it,” Jaron growled. “We’ll discuss this later.”

One body was too much, and there was at least a dozen spread across the square.

Too much, too much.

Blood stained his boots.

Mireldis Thay escaped, but her father was in the castle. Jaron traded one for the other. She wouldn’t come back. Not unless she had a reason to stay that was more attainable than killing Feall.

No, she’d regroup and try again.

Just like Jaron would try to find her.

“Mott?” He rubbed his eyes, his voice quiet. “I’m ready to go home.”

“As you should be,” Mott said.

“Don’t let Tobias see, he’ll blame this on himself.”

It all traced back to that summer day so long ago, when Mireldis Thay first launched her attack on Feall and Oberson.

Roden had the chance to kill her, to end it before it began.

But Tobias had interfered.

And now the square was littered with corpses.


	22. I Only Care About Myself, Captain Harlowe

There was a tightness in Roden’s throat that wouldn’t go away. It grew worse as he visualized the patched Faola, Mireldis Thay, standing in front of Regar’s men. She’d held her dagger with her left hand, the brand on the back of her right dripped blood onto the ground.

All the Faola would’ve been dead if not for her. His men too.

He’d never forget the stone eyes challenging him to fight beside her and the Faola.

He’d never forget the battle fire building in his stomach as he turned to Oberson’s men and ordered them to surrender or die.

The Faola and Mireldis Thay had all melted into the shadows. Melted behind the line of mercenaries.

Roden chose to let them go.

Mireldis Thay fought at his side and called his men to safety just like she’d called for her own. It was difficult deciding who was right and who was wrong. Oberson shouldn’t have sent men after her, but she could’ve slipped into the shadows and ran like she did after the fight ended.

Ultimately, Jaron felt it disrespectful to the Faola who’d died to continue with the feast. The prayers given in the chapel were prayers to the dead.

The entire time he knelt, counting the makeshift beads Merry gave him, it seemed like his hands were slick with blood.

That night, he accompanied Jaron to Graer’s new rooms. Harlowe was already there, waiting for them. He sat in a cushioned chair across from Graer. The fire had died down to a series of embers, they were talking as if they were good friends.

Graer’s chambers were plain, just like every other room on the floor, save for the cushioned chairs. The walls, however, hadn’t been covered in pale plaster. Every stone in the walls and floor was visible.

“King Jaron, Captain Harlowe,” Graer dropped to one knee, and held a hand to his chest. “Thank you, for your kindness.”

“You helped me fulfill my lifelong dream of catching a real live Thay, I’m hoping you can help me catch the other one,” said Jaron, motioning for Graer to stand.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to my daughter as prey evading a hunter.”

“I’m more inclined to think that Lady Mireldis is the hunter, and we’re all rabbits with targets on our backs.”

“Now that is a comet I can approve of,” said Graer as he settled back against his chair. “Is it true? Did she escape Oberson?”

“Unfortunately for us, but luckily for her, yes. She escaped. Don’t look too happy, or I’ll send you back to your cell.”

Roden knew Graer was grinning behind his raccoon-sized beard.

Harlowe cleared his throat, “Your Majesty, I’ve had the opportunity to talk with King Thay, and you’ll find he was attempting to save his child’s life for the right reasons.”

Breaking a law and abetting a girl guilty of treason through a just viewpoint. Roden crossed his arms, “Can you tell me, these reasons, King Thay?”

“It’s, ah, it’s just commander,” Graer wiped his nose. “Please, I relinquished the title years ago, I’d rather be called by the name I’ve earned.”

“ _Commander_ Thay,” Roden corrected himself.

“Is this a long story?” Jaron was leaning his weight on his left leg. “I might need to sit down.”

Graer shook his head, “I heard rumors of Mireldis being here, and I came to find her. I found her stealing purses and attempting to kill my former ward, Feall Cormeach. When given the chance, you’d let your child go in an attempt to lead them back to the straight and narrow path. She’d been blinded.”

There was a divide in Roden’s heart. He knew what it meant to go down the wrong path, it was what he did when he went to the pirates. If it weren’t for Jaron coming to find him, he would’ve taken the same path as Mireldis Thay. He would’ve done everything he could to get revenge.

If it weren’t for his second chance, he’d probably be dead by a pirate’s hand.

However, the law was the law. If punishment skipped one person, everybody would want to be exempt. You couldn’t get away with treason without paying the price.

But he’d been there.

Roden was there when Mireldis was thrown out of the Faola by her father’s own request. She’d ran up the Vaults’ stairs with him, dodging names, fists, and spit. It was exile from a family and running a gauntlet.

She kept her head, but it was still a consequence.

Fists, names, and spit. She’d pushed through it.

He’d taken her by the hand and dragged her up the stairs. Flung her at attacking soldiers without a second thought.

How had he managed to be so close to her, and never once see her face?

It was on him. He should’ve cornered her, and torn off that mask.

The conversation continued without him. Roden reached for the prayer beads Merry gave him, his finger brushing over the fish coin attached to it. He needed to speak to her. Needed to talk about something outlandish and unrelated to the cause at hand.

He trailed his hand over his face, and shoved his way back into the conversation. “Can you predict where she’ll go next?”

Both Graer and Jaron shot him questionable looks. Heat spread up the back of Roden’s neck as he realized that they’d already been discussing exactly that.

“Gelyn or Avenia,” said Harlowe, his voice ever gentle. Ever patient. “King Jaron and Commander Thay are debating what to do.”

“I don’t trust Commander Thay, but he’s also already been hired by Renlyn Karise to protect her ships,” Jaron said. “I can technically hold him here and risk Renlyn’s wrath, and after I accused her of being Mireldis Thay, that might be a bad idea.”

Harlowe leaned his elbows on his knees. “What do you suggest, Roden?”

“Do you want my honest opinion?”

“Always.”

Roden rubbed the back of his neck, “I think it’s a waste to keep Graer here. If we send him to Avenia like Renlyn wants, we’ll have him check for Mireldis. I doubt he’s in any hurry to betray the woman who saved him from whatever Oberson had planned.”

“Especially when that woman is a Karise,” Graer’s focus was on the wall, remembering another time.

“Our only problem is that Renlyn wants her ships guarded now,” explained Jaron. “Alistair and his men will be ready to move within the week, but that’s not soon enough for Lady Renlyn Karise. She’d have him and his army leaving tomorrow if I let her. Lord Row would follow, no doubt.”

“I see no problem in getting rid of all other outside meddlers, not after today,” Roden clenched his fist, unable to think of anything else but the puddles of blood. “The sooner, the better.”

“He’s right,” said Harlowe.

Jaron sighed, “I know, I just don’t want to let this all go so quickly.”

“Then send on my men,” Graer sat a little straighter. “They listen to me, you’ll squeeze in every question you want, and I can ride out when you let me.”

“I don’t like how cooperative you’re being.”

“Would you like me to be headstrong, your Majesty?”

“Please, don’t,” Jaron held up a hand. “It’s been a long day.”

Roden agreed.

He slowly unclenched his smallest finger on his right hand, and then moved on to relax his entire fist. It was slow work, but soon he was able to attempt to do the same action with his left.

It was difficult to get a coiled spring to relax without letting it shoot off into the air.

It was difficult to remind himself that there was no sword swinging at his head. Roden was having a discussion with three other men, two of whom were among those he was closest to.

Not everyone knew how to be safe, even if they’d spent years trying to.

Maybe that’s what kept Mireldis Thay on the run. She couldn’t let herself be safe without killing Feall.

Only an optimistic fool would’ve believed it when Feall claimed that Mireldis wanted to kill him for being Graer’s ward and Ingrid’s favorite. There was something else. Roden reached for the coin hanging around his neck, the engraven fish on the coin’s face was familiar to him. It would keep him safe from harm, but not safe from somebody’s else’s trickery.

Feall wouldn’t give up every detail of the story, Roden had come to accept that.

The only option was to find out Mireldis’s side, and figure out the truth from both sides.

“Tell me, did you ever see Mireldis without her mask?” Jaron walked over to the embers, and then behind Harlowe’s chair.

“Nay, lad, I haven’t seen her and her long hair for almost seven years.”

“Can you at least tell her what she looked like?”

A bitter smile glinted beneath Graer’s beard. “Long hair, fell past her knees, dark eyes. Threw a royal temper tantrum each time it rained and the worms crawled onto the cobblestone only to dry in the sun. Little cleft in her chin, like her mother. . .”

Hair past her knees.

Feall mentioned that too.

Jaron was leaning against the top of Harlowe’s chair, “That’ll be all. People change. They grow.”

“She was half past twelve when I last saw her,” Graer’s voice was calm, quiet. “She didn’t recognize me at first, a lot happens as the years pass.”

“Are you surprised that she’s been after Feall all these years?” Jaron scratched at his nose.

“Excuse me? I know they say she’d died, but I- I thought-”

Something dawned on Roden. Graer tracked his daughter through rumors. It was why he hadn’t looked for her sooner; everyone claimed she was dead. Feall hadn’t made the connection between Mireldis and the bandits until _after_ she’d demanded Oberson hand him over. If it took Feall that long to figure it out, Graer likely had no idea that his daughter- his flesh and blood was trying to murder his former ward.

The look in Graer’s eyes matched the way Harlowe’s did on the day Roden told him how he’d tried to kill Jaron.

Not disappointed, not angry.

Sad.

Devastated.

Graer was full of military swagger. It was draining out of him, the empty space filling with self blame.

“That was why you were angry about letting her go,” he croaked. “I thought her quarry was with Oberson.”

“You didn’t know?” Roden asked. Graer’s story was clicking in line with Feall’s. “We spoke with Lord Feall, would you like to see him?”

There was a pause before he answered. “In- in time. I took in Feall for various reasons; he was meant to keep Mireldis company while I was away.”

A companion. Feall was meant to be a companion, not an heir to the throne of Idunn Craich.

“When did-,” Jaron started, but his sentence fizzled after both Roden and Harlowe looked at him.

“Thank you, for what you’ve said,” Harlowe murmured. “It’s difficult to live through memories.”

“I’ve only just learned that my daughter lived despite the rumors, and now I’ve been informed that her path is even darker than I thought,” Graer cleared his throat. “You have to let me be with her, your Majesty.”

Jaron stood taller. “We don’t know where she is, otherwise I’d arrange it.”

“Stay for a day or two, talk to Feall, and then you’ll be sent to Avenia under Renlyn’s command,” said Roden. “I won’t send my men after a woman who attacked the king, royal blood or not, it sets a precedence to all who want Jaron dead.”

“I suppose that’s better than nothing,” said Graer, his frown almost masked. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“I’m sorry you had to learn about Mireldis this way.”

“As am I.”

Roden wondered if Graer regretted letting her go. If he wondered what would’ve happened if he’d turned Mireldis over, instead of slicing up her sleeves and helping her escape.

He didn’t want to ask. It wasn’t his place.

\----------------------------------------------------

There were still lights on in the Dragon’s Keep. Roden tugged on the sleeves of his blue tunic, and scuffed his boots. He’d gone to the tavern a hundred times before. He’d talked with Merry a hundred times before.

He trusted her, she was his friend. They’d bantered and swapped stories about potatoes made of gold and fish swimming through rainy skies. There was an unspoken agreement between the two of them. They tried not to speak about their scars.

It was better that way.

Made room for more jokes.

His mind was snagged on something. Snagged like a cloak caught on a nail.

Something else was in the air.

Something dangerous.

All he carried with him was a knife in his boot. Only a fool would stage an attack after the battle that happened that morning.

Roden could take care of himself in times of danger. He would rise to any challenge with his sword in hand.

However, there was no sword in his hand, and nobody coming towards him with the intention to kill.

He heaved in a breath, shoved open the door to the Dragon’s Keep, and walked in.

Several lanterns and candles burned. Almost too many of them were glowing, fighting off night’s claws by lighting up every corner. The strong scent of strong liquor wafted through the air. Multiple little glass cups littered the counter.

Dawn and the other barmaids were nowhere in sight.

Maybe he’d come too late. Any sane person would be tucked in bed, dreaming of sunny afternoons or of talking frogs. If Merry practiced what she preached about getting a decent amount of sleep, she would’ve tucked herself into bed hours ago.

A pair of boots stuck out from behind the counter. Muddy boots. There were holes in both toes, revealing a red sock and a grey sock.

_Somebody_ had been out running late night errands.

Roden tapped his knuckles against the counter, and the pair of boots kicked into action. Merry sat straight up, a lock of coal colored hair sticking to her drool-covered chin. She rubbed her eyes, and pulled her knees up to her chest.

The bottle not far from her head had been completely emptied, and bore a familiar mark.

It matched the pirate brand on his arm.

Merry burped, her head in her hands. “Give me a moment.”

“Would you like me to come back later?” Roden asked, setting his foot on the lowest rung of the stool in front of him. “You’re going to be nursing a strong headache if you drank what I think you drank.”

“High and mighty Captain Harlowe knows about pirate liquors,” Merry’s voice lilted. “That _is_ surprising.”

“Come on, Mucky, you’re drunk. I’ll get you something to clear your head, you need to sleep.”

She looked up at him with red rimmed eyes, and wiped her snot covered upper lip with her sleeve. “You’re looking fancy. A knight from a fairytale. Searching for his beautiful princess and the dragon keeping her in a tower.”

Was this what it was like for Tobias when he stumbled into Roden’s office after he’d drank away his memories of blood soaked fields?

How embarrassing.

He pushed away from the stool and held out his hands to Merry. If she’d chosen to drink away some scar, he’d hold her hair back when she vomited it all up. When she didn’t take his hands, he reached for her shoulders. Merry was a dead weight. She fell against him, her arms wrapped around his waist.

“Don’t let go, I’m not ready,” she muttered. “Haven’t gotten my sea legs, yet.”

“I can do that,” Roden said, unsure of where to touch her.

All of her weight was leaning against him as if her knees would give out at any moment. Merry’s arms tightened, and so did his ribs. His hand slid over the side of her face, his fingers curling against her wild hair. He held her shoulder with the other.

Keeping her from falling down.

“Did something happen?” He asked, remembering the marks peppering her skin.

Merry groaned, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

The glasses glinted in the lamplight, the amber liquid within some of them sparkling. It was between Merry and her bottle of pirate made liquor. That was the kind of thing you didn’t talk about.

He wanted to know why.

Why she’d drawn into herself rather than coming to him. They were friends. They were supposed to be there when the other needed them most.

“I won’t make you say anything, then,” said Roden. He tucked an untamed curl behind her ear.

“You’re too good. Too much like all the heroes Jolly sings about,” Merry grumbled. “He wrote a ballad about you. Did you know that? He’s not going to sing it, but we’re going to go to Mendenwal. He’ll perform it there and I’ll collect coins like I always do.”

“When are you two leaving?”

“I don’t know, whenever Jolly says the wind is right. Tomorrow. We’re going-,” she hiccuped. “-we’re going to leave tomorrow and we’re going to pretend none of this ever happened.”

Roden wasn’t sure what to say. He knew she was drunk and probably couldn’t answer every question he had. So he picked one. “Pretend what ever happened?”

“Carthya. Drylliad. We’re not supposed to-,” Merry hiccuped. Once, twice, three times. The fourth turned into a sneeze. “We don’t stay too long. We stayed too long. I don’t have a home anymore.”

“Stay here, Drylliad can be your home,” Roden offered, masking his disappointment. “Jolly can sing in Jaron’s court, and you can stay here.”

“Tending to drunk men and dodging their flying tankards?”

“Not exactly, I’d find you a new place to stay.”

“I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to be tied to the ground and forced into working till I’m picked out of the crowd to have babies till I die. I want to run wild. Jolly lets me run wild.”

She was trailing her fingers up and down his spine. The gesture set his skin on fire beneath his tunic. He didn’t want her to go to Mendenwal, he wanted her to stay. He wanted to throw flowers over bridges and pick snails off the road to keep them from getting squished. He wanted to catch crawfish with Nila and flick those who tried to escape from the bucket. He wanted to wipe the blood off Merry’s face after she cracked her head against somebody else’s for throwing stones at someone in a cell.

And it hurt.

It hurt knowing that he craved those moments, while Merry wanted something bigger.

There were cracks he covered up that couldn’t be filled through daring the Vaults. Couldn’t be filled with battling off ten men all on his own as Jaron rushed in to help.

Roden went to step away from her, but Merry’s hands knotted themselves in his tunic. Her voice strained, “No, no, not yet. I’m still not ready. Sorry.”

“I understand,” he pulled her up a little higher, still hanging on to her wild curls.

“I didn’t want to say goodbye.”

“I don’t want you to say goodbye.”

If he had Jaron’s sparkling wit, he would’ve made a joke. He would’ve joked about Merry’s tale of fish swimming in the rain. About how he wouldn’t be able to tell them apart if she left, and risk starting a conversation with the wrong one.

But he’d promised her that he’d rather push her forward than ever hold her back.

He just didn’t realize that pushing her forward meant letting her go.

“You can let go now,” Merry said, though her hands lingered, still tangled in his tunic. “You can let go now.”

Without saying a word, Roden held his hands up.

She was telling herself to let go, not him.

Merry finally stumbled away. She bumped into the bar, apologized, and held up her hair. Lamplight lit up her face. Her storm gaze lingered at his face.

Too long, she was looking too long. Roden set his jaw. If she stared any harder, she’d find every secret that he’d ever hidden.

His hand lingered at his right sleeve, completely prepared to pull it up and show her the pirate brand. To show her that he wasn’t who she painted him to be.

That it was alright to fall short.

Harlowe drilled that lesson into Roden’s head.

Not every person was going to hit the mark perfectly, and there was nothing wrong with that. What mattered was if in the end, what you did was for something you believed in with your whole heart.

With your whole being.

Merry reached for a half empty glass, and swirled the contents. “Do you ever anticipate the outcome of a fight, and still get disappointed by what happens?”

“I suppose so,” Roden crossed his arms, deciding to hide the pirate brand for another day. “Did you punch Jamie Todd again?”

“In my defense, I did warn you about this,” Merry tipped the glass up, draining what was left. She lifted it behind her head to throw it, but ultimately set it down on the counter. “I told you I’d do something worse than shoving you off a bridge.”

“You’re drunk and barely reach my shoulder, all I need to do is put my hand on your head and you wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

“Silly, silly Cabbage Curls. I’d never hit you. But this has to stop, this- this thing! Where you pretend! You pretend to be my friend!” She pushed away from the bar, reeling in the process.

“But Merry, you are-”

“No! I’m not done! I warned you! How can you tell me that you’re my friend, and then waltz in here with your darling niece and every single one of your friends and act like we’re equals!? You know they’ll choose you every single time. You don’t have to prove anything to them. But I have to prove myself to you! I have to prove that I’m-”

Roden stood his ground, “We’re not having this conversation.”

The biting words were far too personal.

Because he _did_ have to prove himself to his friends, over and over again. It took months to regain their trust. Roden chose to ignore their suspicious side glances. If he didn’t acknowledge that Tobias, Amarinda, and Mott had been right in suspecting his actions, then they’d reevaluate what they thought of him.

And it was true. It was true that he’d sold Jaron out to the pirates. They were right to suspect him.

“We _are_ having this conversation,” Merry growled. She dragged her hand across her dripping nose. “There’s a line between people like you and me. People like you are cherished, you’re blessed, you’re forgiven. But not me. I’m luckless. I’ve tried _so_ hard to jump that divide. To be important, but it just won’t work. I’m not your friend, Roden, you hold a position of power and it would help me.”

“You put a lot of effort into this charade, didn’t you?” Asked Roden, his fists clenching together.

He had to stay calm. If he stayed calm, it would unnerve her. She’d realize just how drunk she was, and go back to bed. They’d apologize to each other in the morning, and-

“I only care about myself, Captain Harlowe,” her voice dropped, and she paused. Merry straightened, almost appearing sober for a moment, and forced a shy, crooked smile.

It only made her words set fire to the memories of cleaning bloody noses and finally comparing ankle sizes.

“Merry, we can figure this out,” he held his hands out in surrender. “If you want the wind in your hair, if you want something grander than being a barmaid, I’ll help you. I _care_ about you. And I know you care about me-”

She shook her head. “No, Roden, I don’t. And I’m sorry. But we’ll never be able to make this work, I can promise you that. You’re too different from me. I’m not cut out to walk the path you tread.”

Upstairs, somebody was stomping. Steps creaked, and a door slammed.

Heat rushed into Roden’s cheeks. He had nothing to say.

No defense for something like this.

“Fill your head with somebody else,” Merry rolled her shoulders back. “It’s cruel- it’s cruel of me, I know, to do this. But you’ll thank me later. Go fill your head with memories of somebody else. Fill your heart with somebody else’s flowers and stupid stories.”

“Is this what you want?” Roden asked, the words were ash in his mouth.

Merry stomped her foot, “Yes it is! Get out! I don’t ever want to-!”

Dawn, in her night dress, stood behind Merry, a bucket in both her hands. She held the bucket up, and dumped the contents, ending Merry’s biting dismissal before it reached its finish. Merry gasped, and wiped her stew soaked hair out of her eyes.

“You won’t speak to him that way, you hear me!?” Dawn snapped, taking Merry by both shoulders and giving her a hard shake.

“What are you going to do, throw me out!?” Merry hissed.

No answer was said. Dawn took Merry by the arm, dragging her to the door. “You can get your things when you’ve cooled off!”

“I’m not ever coming back!” Merry cried. “Not for my things, and not for him!”

Roden turned, watching Merry stumble out the door.

He swore he saw trails of tears cutting across the stew all over her face.

She’d given him every reason to hate her by dredging up old memories. Bad old memories.

All he knew was that he declined any assistance from Dawn, instead, choosing to return home.

There were too many things to think about, and he was numb. It was better to be numb than to think about what Merry said.

Better than thinking about how he’d never see her again.


	23. When All is Said and Done

“They won’t let me through,” Tobias murmured. He dragged his hand over his face, pushed his fingers through his hair. His spirit was threatening to leave him. He had to make sure he hadn’t vanished yet. “Ami, they won’t let me through.”

He was standing in the great hall, standing beside Amarinda, and looking at the guarded doors. 

Afternoon sun warmed the room, but it couldn’t warm the ice in Tobias’s ribs. There were people in need, and Jaron ordered him to stay put.

Ordered him to stay out of the way.

Amarinda reached for his hand, “They’ll open the doors soon, I know they will.”

“I need to be distracted.”

“Would you like to tell me a story?”

“No, no, I need you to ask me questions,” Tobias squeezed Amarinda’s hand. “I suppose it works out because I have something important to tell you.”

“And I am here to listen, my lord.”

Where to begin, where to begin?

This was the first quiet moment they’d had together since market day. It was too much time, even if it had been less than three days. Words had been bottling up in Tobias ever since he’d been attacked by King Oberson’s men. Bubbling and bubbling.

Threatening to spill over.

It was time to tell the truth.

Time to confess that he’d had the chance to see Mireldis Thay’s face, but he chose not to. He’d been asked/ not to. While Mireldis was lying in her puddle of misery, he turned the other cheek and let Renlyn take the reins. He’d let Jolly pick Mireldis up like a sleeping child and carry her out of the Vaults.

He was ready to tell the story.

“I’ve, ah, I’ve been busy lately,” Tobias mumbled. “It’s been a long summer.”

A tiny smile crossed Amarinda’s face. She nodded. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize Graer Thay. You can’t really forget a man that big.”

“Beards change people.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she mused. “What wondrous tale do you have for me today, Tobias?”

“I wouldn’t call it wondrous,” Tobias rubbed the bump on the back of his head, remembering the way his skull crashed into his attacker’s nose. “I’d call it. . . Terrifying. But I did what I could. I tried to do what was right, and I’m beginning to wonder if it was worth it in the end.”

He thought of Ayvar, freed from prison, only to be held against her will. She’d let Oberson’s men past her. Let them go after Mireldis so she could save him.

That was one part he didn’t tell anyone.

It would mean certain death for all of those men. Queen Danika would call both him and Amarinda to Bymar and question them. She’d see to it that justice was found.

Was it wrong that Tobias didn’t want justice? 

Wrong that Tobias only wanted to get past those guards at the doors, and tend to the fallen?

There was too much hatred in the air. It smelled of blood and burned flesh. It tasted of bile and fear. Tobias would willingly sacrifice what he was owed if it meant moving on. He’d do anything he could to bring back happy smiles and tight embraces. 

“Tell me what happened, love,” Amarinda turned to face him, cupping his cheek with her hand. “You know I’ll listen.”

“I-,” Tobias began, his gaze locked on the doors, anticipating the moment they’d open. “King Oberson was right about Mireldis Thay wearing a brand on her hand. Ayvar- she, ah, she was the one who thought of the false sling. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything sooner, Amarinda, but I was struggling with it. I hid Mireldis beneath the table of herbs. I mean, I didn’t do the hiding because I didn’t want to lie, but Jolly did. Jolly stuffed her beneath the table.

“I just- I couldn’t let her stay there, Amarinda. The brand they gave her reaches up her arm. It scalded the flesh bad enough she vomited and passed out. The infection that would’ve come if she hadn’t received treatment is hard to survive. I asked them not to let me look, I’ve heard about Feall’s tale, and I don’t think it’s fair to serve justice without Mireldis’s full, honest testimony. That means a story given freely, not under the threat of fear. There, that’s what I needed to get off of my chest. I feel better now.”

Amarinda blinked.

So many words in so little time. They’d been building up for so long, and now they were free. 

Breathing became a little bit easier; Tobias pressed a hand to his heart in a vain attempt to slow it down. 

He couldn’t look away from the doors. One of the guards had shifted. His hand, which had once been resting on his halberd, was resting on the door handle. Any second now, those doors would open, and Tobias would be free to fulfill his calling. He’d be free to tend to those who’d fallen to the blade.

“Tobias,” Amarinda said slowly, her voice low and even. “Did you let Mireldis go?”

“I had nothing to do with that, I promise. I don’t know the full story, but I just know Jolly had something to do with it. I think she was trying to escape. I think she wanted to get out of the city before Oberson did.”

“You chose not to see her face.”

“I- I know it looks bad, but-”

“No, I’m proud of you. It would’ve been hard to ignore her. To look away while you let her friends clean her up. It’s much nobler than smashing your head into a guard’s nose,” a smirk replaced her smile. “I overheard you all talking amongst yourselves last night.”

With a chuckle, Tobias brushed the tender spot at the back of his head, “I’ll have to give it to Roden, if he does that to every opponent he meets, he must have a very hard he-”

The doors creaked open, and Tobias was ready. He gripped Amarinda’s hand with one of his own, and held onto his medical bag with the other. All he knew was that he had to get there in time. There had to be somebody still alive and in need of Tobias’s skills.

“Slow down, Tobias!” Amarinda called, but she continued to race after him, her skirts gathered in her hand.

Normally, he’d listen. He’d recognize the dangers that came with sprinting over cobblestones.

But this wasn’t about himself.

It was about life and death, and an unfair fight.

Roden and the other soldiers were marching back to the castle in straight lines. Oberson’s men were in the middle of them all, their heads hanging down in shame. Better to be placed in another man’s care than to bleed out in the street. Tobias didn’t wait to exchange casual greetings.

The fight happened just outside the Dragon’s Keep according to the pages who’d prepared Mystic for Jaron. Almost there, almost there. Tobias and Amarinda raced past quiet buildings. He ignored the way his lungs were burning. The way his side grew a stitch. He’d have to remember to run this fast this long more often.

Almost there.

“Tobias! Wait!” Amarinda came to a screeching halt, preventing Tobias from going any further.

He almost tripped on his own feet at the corpse before him.

The young man couldn’t have been older than sixteen. His uniform was handmade, a black tunic barely held together by other scraps of fabric. Gloves covered his hands. The mask he and the other Faola wore had been discarded. Tossed to the side in a last attempt to breathe. In a desperate attempt to survive the gaping wound in his chest.

His eyes were brown. His nose was a little large. Somebody was expecting him. Somebody had to be expecting him.

“Oh,” Tobias grunted. He stepped back, almost bumping into Amarinda as he tried to keep his boots out of the boy’s blood. “We can- he could- maybe-”

Amarinda gripped his upper arm, “He’s dead, Tobias. There’s no coming back from a wound like that.”

He finally took a moment to look around himself.

There were more handmade leather masks thrown around. Some were meant to cover the eyes, others were meant to cover the mouth. Each one that lingered on the cobblestones was covered in either their owner’s blood, or somebody else’s.

They’d never be used again.

A little ways away from the fallen Faola boy lay one of Oberson’s soldiers. Somebody left a dagger embedded in his back. It was driven through layers of fabric and chainmail, put there with the intention to kill.

Did the soldier know that when he came to Carthya, he’d never see Dinwallis or any other part of Bymar again?

Had he understood the risks when he agreed to accompany Oberson across mountains and swamps? 

Tobias rubbed his eyes, “We have to get to work, there’s somebody here that’s still alive.”

But the longer he stood, the more he realized just how unlikely his statement was.

The Faola followed Oberson into Drylliad. They’d followed Mireldis Thay, or at least that’s what Tobias had been led to believe. It was entirely possible that the Faola and Mireldis’s arrival had been a coincidence.

The Saints only knew what really had happened.

Ignoring another fallen Faola, this one a girl who’d taken a blow to the face, Tobias waded further and further into the battleground. Blood from both the attackers and the defenders mixed in puddles and streams between the cobblestones. In death, everyone was the same. They were all gone, Bymarian soldier or ragtag bandit.

Tobias pressed his fingers to throat after throat, searching for just one pulse. Amarinda lingered behind, and he was glad. He didn’t want her to see him fail at the one thing he cared for.

Fixing other people.

Helping the unfortunate regardless of what side of the battle they fought on. 

His hope was beginning to falter. He checked for a pulse on one of Oberson’s soldiers; the third body Tobias knelt beside.

No heartbeat, only a glassy expression staring up to where the Saints resided. Tobias inhaled, and set a hand over the man’s eyes, lowering his lids for him. It was a small final favor for a man following orders.

He couldn’t give up. He wouldn't give up. Even after he’d found no pulse on the fifth victim, Tobias would keep going. He’d check the sixth, the tenth, the fifteenth if he had to. Trying to save one of the fallen was the least he could do.

Feeling no heartbeat became so common, Tobias almost didn’t recognize the fluttering heartbeat of a young man dressed in black. Tobias tore off the young man’s mask. “Amarinda! Amarinda, I found one!”

Tobias cut through the young man’s dark tunic, looking for the source of his wound. A blow to the torso would be difficult to fix, but not impossible.

A large gash in the man’s side was still bleeding.

“Ask him his name, try to get him to wake up,” Tobias ordered. 

Amarinda often spoke to patients with a calming lullaby ringing in her words, but not now. She was using her ambassador’s voice, demanding that the young man answer her. It took several urges, but a groan escaped his lips.

Better than nothing.

Tobias reached into his back for a bottle of alcohol, tore the cork off with his teeth, and splashed it onto a cloth. He wiped away the blood on the man’s side. That/ was powerful enough to wake him up.

It was easier to ignore the fact that Tobias caused all of this.

He’d caused this pain.

All because he’d believed that even one life cut down was too much. It was too high of a price.

But now Mireldis Thay was gone. She’d used Tobias’s kindness against him and escaped, leaving a trail of bodies behind her.

He had to save the young Faola.

He had to atone for the mistake he’d made. **  
**

\--------------------------------

Hours passed.

He’d tried sleeping with the covers on and with them off, but it was never quite right. Amarinda was curled up on her side, snoring softly. Tobias held as still as he could, not wanting to wake her with the twisted musings of a sleepless mind.

The morning sky turned pale pink. Light wouldn’t come for several more hours. Tobias crept out of his bed, and dressed as quietly as he could. He wouldn’t be able to calm down enough to go back to sleep, and there was no use in trying to fight that.

Remembering some forgotten lesson about sneaking around from Jaron, Tobias waited to put his boots on until he was out in the hallway, keeping them wrapped up in his cloak. Amarinda didn’t stir in her sleep.

So many thoughts.

So many things that happened. He was exhausted, but what was a few more hours of activity? There were imported teas from the west that could keep him awake. Other tasks to keep him from drifting off to sleep. He’d do what he had to.

Tobias pulled at the collar of his tunic, clasped his cloak around him, and slipped down the corridor.

Nobody was awake, save for the occasional guard keeping an eye out for the vanished Mireldis Thay. 

She’d managed to flee, and Tobias was to blame for it. 

He wasn’t sure where he was going to go, but he couldn’t stay in the castle for one more minute. 

The courtyard was almost as empty. However, a familiar silhouette sat on the bottom of the stairs leading up to the castle doors.

“Can’t sleep?” Tobias asked, sitting beside Roden.

He shook his head, “No, I’ve, uh, I have a lot to think about.”

A bundle rested on his lap, consisting of a scarlet cloak wrapped around several objects. Roden’s eyes bore shadows. He’d been frowning.

“Me too.”

“You go first?”

“I suppose,” said Tobias. He set his hands on his knees, “I, ah, I went down to the square where the Faola fought off King Oberson’s men. Tried to find somebody I could save. I wanted to at least try, Roden. I passed person after person, each one dead. There was one boy with a pulse I almost missed. Patched him up best I could, but I don’t know if he’ll survive. What about you?”

Roden scoffed, “My situation isn’t nearly as bad.”

“It’s still worth listening to.”

“Went to the Dragon’s Keep to check in on Merry,” Roden scratched the back of his neck. “The fight happened so close to her, I thought something- something bad might’ve happened. Found her drunk on the floor. We fought, said regretful things, and turns out she’s leaving for Mendenwal today. Plus, the last I saw her, she was covered in stew and yelling, I don’t want to remember that.”

“Is the cloak for her?” 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wished somebody had been there for me after I fought with Jaron to remind me that I had a choice,” he explained. Roden pulled aside the top of the red cloak, revealing several pieces of wrapped food and a carved charm. “I might not be her friend, but she’s mine.”

Tobias held up the charm, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’ve always been bad at reading people.”

The morning air was a little chillier than the previous morning. Tobias rubbed his hands together. The cloak he wore didn’t do much to keep him warm. He must’ve grabbed one of the flashier ones. By the Saints, did that mean he was wearing an orange shirt too? 

Never get dressed in the dark.

He set the charm back down, and stood. If Merry was leaving, so was Jolly. They couldn’t have gotten far if they’d left the city. Tobias sauntered down the last few steps, and tucked his dark hair behind his ears. If Roden wanted to see the girl who’d yelled at him one last time, then Tobias would go with him.

It would help him think about other things.

It would take his mind off of whether or not that Faola boy would survive under the watchful care of the royal physician. 

“Come on, where Merry is, we’ll find Jolly sitting and playing the lute. We’ll be able to hear him,” said Tobias, gesturing for Roden to stand up. “The more time we sit here is more time for them to get away.”

“You’re right, as always,” Roden grunted. He pushed himself to his feet, the red cloak tucked under his arm. “Thank you, Tobias.”

“I should be thanking you,” he countered. A witty retort crossed his mind, but he stashed it away for another day.

A pale blue haze settled in over the city, masking the early summer morning frogs and slugs fighting for dominance of the cobblestones. Tobias winced when a snail shell crunched beneath his shoe.

Couldn’t he do anything right?

Yes he could! Be happy Tobias! Life is good for you!

But it didn’t feel good. Not right now. Not the morning after a fight between cloth armored bandits and armor armed soldiers. 

“Did we ever find out the cause of the fight?” Tobias wrapped his cloak around himself. “Why the Faola allegedly attacked Oberson’s men.”

Roden shook his head, “Mireldis Thay has the answer wherever she is. I think that Oberson’s men chased her, and the Faola jumped in. She was one of their own at one point.”

The buildings they passed looked almost cozy. Families were tucked in their rooms on the top floors. Fires would be simmering, waiting to be put out before the sun heated the air. They’d go on with their little lives without batting an eye at the street outside the Dragon’s Keep.

And he envied them.

He wanted to know the secret to going about your life without fretting over every squashed snail and every paper cut.

How? How would he ever stop thinking about the fight between the Faola and Oberson’s men if he couldn’t even save one of them?

Quiet notes from a plucked lute swam through the air, twining together in a series of minor strings.

_Merry curses my noble name_

_Claiming I don’t do sh-_

“Hey! Give that-!” Jolly’s voice lowered to a whisper, too far away to be heard.

A wagon stood outside the Dragon’s Keep, pulled by a gold Bymarian war horse. Jolly’s feet hung over the wagon’s side. He was reaching for his lute, which Merry held a safe distance away. Her back was to Tobias and Roden

“Help me load your junk first, and then you can sing,” she said. “The sooner we leave the better.”

Tobias went to clear his throat, but Jolly sat straight up in the cart. He waved, “We’re getting a going away party?”

“We couldn’t let our meddlesome troubadour leave us without telling him how much trouble he’s caused,” Tobias grinned. He walked forward, aware of the fact that Roden had frozen in his tracks. “Are you coming back soon, Jolly?”

He waved his hand, “We’ll see. Merry hates it here and she’s my driver. Give it a few months and I’ll be back with a new ballad and a party to crash.”

A breeze lifted Tobias’s cloak ever so slightly. Tendrils of mist curled around alley entrances. Summer was dying, and so was the whirlwind adventure Tobias had been thrown into. He suddenly realized that he very much didn’t want Jolly to leave. 

It meant that there would soon be something else to worry about than bloody ballads and half drawn truths.

“I remember Roden’s first jousting match like it was yesterday,” Jolly wiped a false tear away from his eye. “Standing in for old sir Nyrsate. I’d never been more proud to call somebody my friend.”

“You jousted? And you didn’t tell me?” Tobias looked back to Roden in shock, he’d watched that match, fully believing it was Nyrsate that won. Not Roden.

“It didn’t come up,” Roden crossed his arms. He still hadn’t moved.

Merry’s face had gone pink. She was loading wooden crates into the cart with an inhuman speed. 

Jolly had to have noticed. He probably knew the full story of everything going on, but kept it hidden with a wide smile and a brightly colored jacket. “Merry, Merry. Stop, let me help. Sometimes she insists on letting me be the damsel in distress, I really don’t mind it, actually. Less work for me. Are you my knight, Merry? Or are you the dragon keeping me safe?”

“I’m the witch who cursed you to sleep forever,” Merry retorted. She reached for Jolly’s hand, and pulled him out of the cart. “Kidding, Jay, I’ll be your knight.”

“Catch me then!”

Without warning, Jolly fell backwards. Tobias moved to catch him, as did Roden, but Merry proved her worth as Jolly’s fairytale knight, and managed to catch him before he hit the ground.

“I knew it, you’re my hero,” Jolly held a hand to his forehead as if he were going to faint.

She shoved him off, “I want to get to Mendenwal before the week is-”

“Tobias! I have something I need to say to you,” he said. Jolly pointed a finger at Merry’s face. “It’s a secret, so don’t bother trying to figure it out because I’m just going to tell it to you in a few hours.”

Roden was already looking at him. Tobias tried to shrug as he let Jolly lead him away, he’d never seen Roden’s eyes widen with that much fear.

Jolly was forcing the two of them to talk.

“Do you actually have something to say or are you just bullying them?” Tobias asked once he and Jolly were out of earshot near an alley.

“Both, I suppose,” Jolly straightened his blue shirt collar. “I don’t regret it, leaving the two of them behind. Merry needs to learn what it’s like to still have an ally even after she’s made a mistake.”

“I’m curious, how did you meet her?”

“Are we going to bring up questions of the past or discuss the future?”

Only fools would try to predict Jolly. Tobias crossed his arms. “I’d like both, actually.”

“I met Merry years ago, thought she was a corpse,” his performer’s smile shrank. The smile was meant for himself. “And years later, we’re still terrorizing innocent festivals together.”

“I have a feeling that’s not the only thing you do.”

The smile vanished completely. Jolly stood at his full height, his arms crossed. “You earned it. And you’re technically Bymarian royalty.”

“Earned what?”

“Information. Playing the lute is only one of my hobbies. Did you know that I can play the viol, as well? I can play the fippler, too, and the Bymarian pipes. Flutes. I can do flutes, too. Did you know that a sturdy flute can help you in a fight?”

Tobias tilted his head, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ve used a flute in a fight against a sword before,” Jolly said. “You ask what else I do? I relay information to Queen Danika. Nobody suspects a troubadour with a pretty friend and a taste for ale.”

“And Merry?”

“She, ah, tags along for the sights and the adventure. The pretty boys, too. Merry has no penchant for waiting on royalty anymore.”

“You mean she did at one point?”

“I only tell another’s story through song, not conversation. Everyone deserves their privacy.”

He stole a glance over his shoulder to check on Roden. Merry was standing with her arms crossed a safe distance away. On the other hand, Roden was closer than before. He was gesturing to himself.

Everyone deserves their privacy. That’s what Jolly claimed.

But at what cost?

“Why did you come here in the first place?” Tobias asked. 

Jolly waved his pointer finger back and forth, “Past questions don’t help. I came for a festival, but I stayed to find Mireldis Thay. And after that, I stayed for Merry. People like her and I don’t grow roots, but we tricked ourselves into thinking things were different. We will go to Bymar to run through flower fields and forget what happened here, but we leave for Bymar soon. Queen Danika will learn about the treachery of lesser kings and lesser men.”

“What happened here was my-”

“Don’t say it was your fault, Lord Branch. Too many people think they control another’s choices. Everyone thinks for themselves. You can’t control the actions of another.”

The streets had been cleaned in the night. The corpses from the previous afternoon had been carted away, and thrown into a mass grave. It was the actions of other people that brought bloodshed to the streets.

Tobias looked back to Roden and Merry again; he was holding out the bundled red cloak.

“Be careful, Jolly,” said Tobias. He reached out to shake hands, “There’s far too few smiles around here.”

“Take care. Not enough people show compassion the way you do,” Jolly grabbed Tobias’s arm, and pulled him into an embrace. His voice dropped, “Thank you for saving Mireldis. For keeping her hidden.”

“Don’t ever ask me to lie like that again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He walked to Roden, unsure of why his heart felt so heavy.

Something was ending, and despite the aching it brought, Tobias was sad to see it go.

“I’ll see you again, Mucky face,” Roden shoved the red cloak forward. 

“I’m not ever coming back,” insisted Merry. She took the bundle, and bowed her head when she saw Tobias. “Lord Branch, thank you for your kindness.”

“May the road rise to greet you, and the rain stay out of your face,” he said.

She turned around and set the cloak on the cart. “Goodbye Cabbage Curls.”

Tobias swallowed. He was witnessing something that didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t his right to stand so close to Roden. To stand so close to Merry as she hid her sniffles with a cough. He clapped Roden’s shoulder, and took a few steps away.

“Say what you want, but I will/ see you again,” Roden promised. “We’re not that different.”

Merry’s voice cracked. “Are you going to chase me down? Trap me in a pretty cage?” 

“No. I’ll push you forward, like I’m doing now. When you come back, it won’t be because of a festival or Jolly. It’ll be because you chose to.”

“It’s dangerous to give choices as gifts.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Suddenly, the ground became very interesting. Tobias kicked at a loose stone. He’d look when he was welcome. 

He heard the last of the crates thud into place. Roden was watching, and Tobias did the same. Jolly strummed at his lute. Merry clicked the reins. The cart rolled into motion. 

“That was brave of you,” Tobias said. “Still speaking to her after what she said.”

Roden held the medallion he wore in his fist, the first few rays of sunlight glinting off of a carved fish. He kept quiet, and nodded his thanks.

Jolly’s clear voice accompanied them as they walked back to the castle, a final parting gift.

A new ballad.

_Once there was a princess,_

_Her eye made of thunder and her hair made o’night_

_She fell into a well, too deep to escape_

_Forever lost from sight_

_Her brother came to save her_

_Gave a poisoned gift_

_But I didn’t weep, instead threw rope over well walls_

_I dragged her out myself_

_She cried for a day and chose the dark way_

_All I did was watch_

An eerie end to a lover’s tale, but there were worse stories.

Tobias rubbed his nose with his sleeve. He’d get no conversation out of Roden.

They’d all come so far, and lost so much.

He wondered. Wondered about future chances.

Wondered if they’d ever have the chance at catching Mireldis Thay.

But when all was said and done, did it really matter?

Until they knew the whole story, Tobias wasn’t sure of an answer.

He’d keep going until he found the truth.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the summer, and the Streets of Drylliad.
> 
> If you made it to the end, I'm ever grateful and I hope you liked it! This ficlet series was selected by Jennifer Nielsen to be promoted on her blog in a contest for the book five dedication, I'd deeply appreciate it if you went and voted for the Streets of Drylliad!
> 
> Thank you all!


End file.
